


Chill Rain

by Nanadee



Category: Vinland Saga (Anime), Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Angst and Tragedy, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Family Secrets, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Growth, Healing, Lost Love, Non-Explicit Sex, Reader-Insert, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Romance, Slavery, Slow Burn, Soul-Searching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29098263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanadee/pseuds/Nanadee
Summary: “You are no disgrace because of the blood you bear, nor by the blood our ancestors have spilled. What we're doing...we're merely paying the price of it,” she reminds you, words somber, echoing across generations of long-sufferance and this softrainfall.“Any surviving believers of Artorius' legend will curse our bloodline for eternity, but we must prevail — you will prevail, little one. Far, far from here.”It is not the first time she’s shared this with you. Grim words of a reality that you must live with on your mother's chapped lips. Not the first time you’ve been reminded of the crime your ancestors have committed, five-hundred years ago.It is not the first time you learn of humanity’s cruelty.Ofhatred.NOTE: Contains manga spoilers; from Chapter 4 and onward.[ thorfinn x reader ] & [ canute x reader ]
Relationships: Canute (Vinland Saga)/Reader, Gudrid/Thorfinn (Vinland Saga), Thorfinn (Vinland Saga)/Reader
Comments: 15
Kudos: 29





	1. Eleven Years

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! This fic was originally titled: "Howl."  
> However, I'm finally reposting this piece after removing it for a few tweaks and revisions as well as including extra scenes and exposition. Chapters will also be _longer._ Exciting! Now, back in October, I'd recently gotten around to watching this anime and reading the manga, despite being painfully late, and I must say...what a pleasant surprise it was. Therefore, I offer my humble contribution to the Vinland Saga fanfic community — take my heart; be gentle.
> 
> A few things to note:
> 
> ☽ This is based solely on the _fictitious_ characters of Makoto Yukimura's Vinland Saga.  
> ☽ This story and references to old Norse mythology will _not_ be historically accurate.  
> ☽ This is a canon-based story; there will be canon events often mentioned and revisited.  
> ☽ There will be major manga spoilers at a later point in this story, as well; proceed with caution.  
> ☽ There will be mentions of major deaths, non-explicit sexual assault/content, violence, and explicit language.  
> ☽ Long chapters (10k+ words)
> 
> ### 
> 
> Music & Themes:  
> Chill Rain/冷雨 - Vinland Saga OST  
> Drown - Milet  
> Polaris - Aimer  
> Mukanjyo - Survive Said The Prophet  
> A True Warrior/本当の戦士 - Vinland Saga OST
> 
> Social Media:  
>  Come say hi, ask questions, or just keep up with me and my vibe on Tumblr:  
>  @[Nanadee](https://nanadee.tumblr.com/)  
> 
> 
> ### 
> 
> Thank you! Feedback is always appreciated!  
> Vinland Saga © Makoto Yukimura, 2005

****

❛...they made a surprise attack while they were bathing; many Danes were killed by English troops in Danelaw. Gunhilde, the sister of Sweyn, king of Denmark, was one of the victims.  Revenge for his sister — King Sweyn has a good excuse now. A big war is about to begin. It's time for us warriors to shine...❜  
  


 **— I —** **  
****E L E V E N Y E A R S**

_“Which story would you like to hear tonight, hm?”_

_A cherubic finger points to the night sky as an answer, beyond a thin canopy of shivering leaves and spindly branches; to the aching moon._

_Beautiful and waxing._

_“Ah,” your mother croons, arms wound around you, and she is much the same. “Seems you enjoy hearing this tale most, little one. Alright, then.”_

_Her voice is silken. Lyrical and lullabilic. She takes a strand of your dirtied hair and twirls it wistfully around a finger, nails cracked and split from these days of running. Surviving. Tattered threads of her tunic, long shredded, brush along the crest of your youthful cheek. A gesture that would always lull you to sleep, and the thought of your father's return from scavenging supplies at the nearest village calms you further. He always returns._

_The autumn night is cold along the outskirts of Danelaw's ruin since Saturday's massacre, but there is nowhere else for you to go._

_“This is a story from days of old. Of how the radiant Goddess of our moon above, Luna, fell so in love with a sleeping shepherd of Caria, though some believe he was a prince of Elis, and he was called Endymion…This is a story of how his revered Goddess returned every night to protect and admire him during his eternal slumber...”_

**1002 A.D.  
❖** **  
****E N G L A N D** **  
****H U M B E R R I V E R**

  
It’s been _three_ days since.

Mother is gone.

Along with Father, though he was the first to vanish.

Autumn is offensively bitter as the sun reaches its zenith, but the wildlife does not mind it as much as you do. Twigs snap and prick against the skin of your palms and bare feet. It hurts to walk for too long. Father had always carried you across rougher terrains, and yet...you stand upon these broken sticks, this slanted land; toes digging into sodden soil and fallen, crisp leaves.

But, they are beautiful. Of red and gold.

Another lonely day passes into the _fifth_ night spent by yourself. The wolf returns when the woodlands are veiled in darkness.

A beast that has prowled among your presence for far too long.

Father is not there to wield a burning torch, nor is Mother able to shield you within frail arms. It is only you, the land, soughing winds of ancient autumn, and the wolf itself. Game runs rampant through these parts of English land, though the wolf relishes the fear of you on most nights. Feeds from it. Craves it.

On the _seventh_ day, the sound of laughter pulls you from depressive thoughts. Hearty. Strong. Of men and swords and heavy feet marching atop these fertile grounds. So many of them. An army, perhaps? Regardless, your feet are light when you follow the sound, cautious to avoid scattered leaves and dry foliage, but you’re certain those traveling men are louder.

They move uphill, along an overgrown path.

Glinting iron catches sun threads — intimidating swords, chipped axes, rusted chainmail, and mismatched armor. It’s all jagged and disorderly. Much different from the guards and soldiers that you’ve seen postured at larger towns. And yet, there is something about those men. Something that stirs your insides, and nearly makes your eyes water in what could only be described as terror.

Vikings. Danes.

Brutish men.

You may be young and impressionable, but your time spent within Danelaw has taught you how to evade dangerous men when you see them. What you are not well-versed on, however, is the sight of a much smaller figure tailing after the Danes.

In that instance, you spot him: A young golden-haired boy, perhaps closer to your age, following behind those Vikings, but even he seems to keep his distance. He’s so tired and weak, with lilac painted beneath his eyes, that you aren’t taken aback when he slips on loose moss along the slanted hill, tumbling _down, down, down_ until his delicate frame slams into the base of an old, rooted beech tree.

Then, silence.

Not a deathly silence, but the “silence” of a forest’s hymn.

Still bearing caution, you stare at him for a moment longer, contemplating.

He seems truly incapacitated. Motionless against the ground.

Songbirds perch atop high branches, fluttering to and fro.

Golden leaves descend from above; dew and dust motes shimmer between slatted threads of sunlight breaking through the canopy.

Is he...alive?

Concerned by wry thoughts, you scramble from your hidden perch on small, bare feet all the way down to him. Cursed by a lack of height at your age, you nearly stumble along, arms flailing as you huff. You all but _trip_ next to the boy, landing on bruised knees and scraped palms, but he is out cold. Unfazed by your blunder. There, you study him curiously with round eyes, ingraining his face in your mind. Is he like you? He doesn’t seem much like a slave, but he doesn’t seem as if he is from the lands of England, either. It’s strange.

What is he doing with Vikings?

Upon a closer inspection, you notice that he has...a dagger?

A weapon.

Why?

Aside from the obvious, you’re bold enough to conclude that he’s dehydrated.

The boy’s lips are cracked and split. Skin dirtied. Clothes tattered. These are all sights not uncommon to you. Raised among men and women, boys and girls, who all bore little but stained and torn threads for garments, and weathered faces. Still, there is something else about this boy that strikes you as odd. Where did he come from, then? Why is he in this situation? Oddly, you pity him more than yourself. You’ve had to make do with what you had as well, and thankfully, your parents had left behind enough edible nuts, berries, and water from the nearby river for you to survive a few more days.

You just have to wait a few more days before your parents' return — because they _would_ return, right? They would never leave you alone. Never. You have faith in them, undying, and you are adamant about staying put in the area, in case they return for you.

Yes, they will.

You know it.

But, _who_ will come for the boy?

Nonetheless, you hoist him up with what little strength you possess in an emaciated body, and _drag_ him — quite literally, yes — closer to the stream that you and your parents have been utilizing for freshwater. You leave him close enough to where the trickle of the water would alert him to its location upon his awakening. Only afterward, do you retreat and scurry back to find a better place to hide within. Despite yourself, you don’t want to stray too far from him.

☽

When the boy does awaken, it’s in the midst of nightfall.

Senses heightened, you hear him rustle the leaves as he slowly rises to his feet. Perhaps he hears the water as it flows. Hears the trickle of it over a bed of pebbles and dampened leaves. By the time you push yourself up from your distant slumber, you maintain a safe distance to follow him as he chases after the sound, sticking closer to trees and dense thickets to conceal yourself. He succeeds in finding the stream for water, and you observe him dropping to his knees in the stream, water splashing to dampen his attire before he dips eager hands and cups it in his small palms to drink. Swallowing down a mouthful, the boy throws his head back, tilted toward the star-dusted sky, and…

And, he _laughs,_ tears pearling at the edges of honey-brown eyes as he looks up to a gracious moon.

_To Luna._

Hidden, you watch him, entranced with this innocent wonder. His stomach growls, painfully, as elation fades to dust, but more disconcerting is the distant sounds of chaos. It comes from the direction of the small village. You remember that you and your parents had strategically bypassed it — given that they would know you were runaways, judging solely by the raggedy garments you’d worn.

And yet, you can hear screams amassing from beyond, women and children and infants, and there is the glow of fire against the night sky.

It must be the band of Vikings that the boy had arrived with — if he even arrived _with_ them.

Alarmed, the nameless boy seems to notice too, and he stands to approach the outcry rather than to retreat, as you do.

☽

It’s the piercing whimper of a desperate canine; the horrified yells of a struggling boy that draws you in at first, but then it’s the glow of a nearby fire that lures you nearer. That is until you spot the sight of the slain wolf, splayed on the ground in its mass before the young boy that sits there, trembling, bloodied dagger clasped in hand, amber eyes wide. Did he slay the wolf? That very beast had been hunting you down for the past few days, relentlessly, and yet, that boy...He is the one to slay it. You no longer have to fear it, or at least, not for a while, before more would arrive. They do often travel in packs, however, that one, it is...

Yes, it is a lone wolf.

Catching lost breath, the boy sits there for a while, watching the blood dampen thick fur.

A tightness in your throat arises. The death of this animal saddens you, still. Despite the nights you’d spent shielding yourself from its snarling maw and nocturne eyes that shone between thickets. Ah, a heavy heart.

You approach the boy, steps crunching autumn leaves beneath your feet.

This time, you don’t bother to mask your presence.

The boy startles, fumbling about, but he manages to redirect and hoist his small bloody dagger, pointed toward you. Not unexpected. When he notices that you are just a girl, he seems shocked, eyes widening even more. After a while, he gulps down apprehension and his mouth forms words, but they are of a foreign sound to your ears. You can’t understand his language. Well, of course, it would be so. The moment that you gather the courage to approach this strange boy, you discover that you _can’t_ even decipher the words that leave his mouth.

Wordless, you stare back at him, befuddled.

The boy blinks and starts up again, foreign syllables and sounds carried in his voice.

Ogling his way, still, you shake your head — a universal gesture.

_I don’t understand._

With that, at least, he seems to realize this thick language barrier.

He is indeed on new lands, and so...

The glint of steel flickers from the sword left on the ground at the boy's side. Eyeing it for a contemplative moment, he reaches for it, lifts it with all his strength, and turns to catch your gaze. Still planted on the cold dirt of the forest floor, he pushes himself to his feet, face and skin speckled with wolf blood. Grunting, he extends the hilt of the sword toward you, offering it up. The small fire spits and dances. You're silent. Brown eyes peer back at you, and he hoists the weapon, waiting for you to take it. And yet...

Where did he even get that sword from? It is half of his size, let alone _your_ size. Is it from the Danes? The Vikings? Back from the village they'd sieged? Regardless of the sword's origin, it does you well to recall that having some form of protection will be far more assuring than just the rags you wear.

Breath vaporizing against autumn winds, you nod, taking the sword from the boy's hand. Ah. It's heavy!

You grip it with both hands, spine awkwardly curving.

Still — you'll _wield_ it.

Just as he will _wield_ the drenched dagger he clutches onto.

Inhaling a long breath, the boy points at himself, speaking aloud:

“Thor...finn.”

Ah. A name, perhaps?

Understanding, you perk up, long lashes blinking as he adds further:

“You...n-name?” he asks of you in clipped English.

Comprehending, you point up at the high moon, above the fire’s rising flames and embers.

Thorfinn follows your movement, gazing up at the celestial body — honey-brown eyes like a setting sun against this cool-grey moon — then, he’s back to watching _you,_ where you bring a hand against your chest.

The other still grips the sword's hilt.

_...this is a story from days of old. Of the radiant Goddess of our moon above, Luna..._

“Lu...na,” you approximate this self-given nickname to him.

☽

Two months since Thorfinn's disappearance, and the warships return with thundering drums to mark an arrival worth your time. Curse your optimistic and driven soul, however, to believe that it will carry _Thorfinn_ onboard — the same way you believe that your parents will reemerge, true to their promises.

“Thorfinn!” Your voice is disused and brittle, though you call for him, nonetheless. “Thorfinn!”

Toward the riverbank, you go.

Dashing as a hare would.

Bounding over lifted roots and sticks and stones, sword sheathed and in hand by the scabbard, you rush through the woodland’s tree line and out into the openness of Humber River’s bank. Danish vessels are berthed atop the land, and yes, it has to be them. It _has_ to be—

“Thorfinn!” you exclaim, pushing through the last of shrubs, but as you slow to this staggering halt, eyes trailing up the massive height of a burly man, the smile on your lips falls flat. The excitement in your scratched voice fades.

Is he...even a man?

He’s too tall. Much too big, but that shade of hazel in his eyes beneath the vividly printed headwear he flaunts is anything but intimidating. In fact, it’s closer to excitement.

Behind him, warriors meander about, armed to the teeth.

Your heart plummets, and so does your _sword_ at your feet — they’ll kill you.

Take you hostage.

Sell you back into enslavement.

The gigantic man nearest to you seems intrigued by your existence, nonetheless.

 _“Thorfinn?”_ he echoes, and you can at least pick out the name on his lips before it bleeds into foreign words. _“That name, it sounds—... But, you don’t seem—Maybe you are? Hm...isn’t that just odd!”_

The garish brute is more intrigued on why you’re calling out this particular name — you don’t seem Norse in regards to your mannerisms nor the threads you wear, and perhaps in more distinctive ways than that, but it's the sword and sheath you carry, as well as the name on your lips, that alludes to _some_ kind of prior contact with Norsemen.

 _“Say, this Thorfinn fellow, is he another runaway from Danelaw?”_ the man asks, but with your prolonged silence, he seems to get the message. _“Ah, you can’t understand, can you?”_

And yet, you cannot fathom a word he says. The only sounds you recognize and cling onto are the two distinguishable syllables of "Thorfinn" among foreign sentences.

☽

_“We should toss her overboard by morning.”_

_“And, waste her value? A young runaway slave of the late Lady Gunhilde would sell for a fortune.”_

_“Captain...she won’t last through the night.”_

_“Hm? Of course, she will. Look at her!”_

As these Vikings talk of you in their mother language, you are all but skin and bones; pithless, tucked against the stern of the vessel with your sheathed sword and knees drawn to your chest — scraped and discolored from months of childish mishap.

A disturbing contrast to the bulk and mass of _Thorkell the Tall._

It’s even more noticeable when he crouches before you, knee thudding against the wooden deck, and yet he _still_ towers. The entirety of your curled frame is swallowed up in his shadow. Eyes pointed upward, you gulp dryly, and your throat _burns._ The hull groans, swaying along a calm current as the brute’s men row furiously, born for the exertion of it.

 _“Say, what do they call you?”_ Thorkell’s voice reverberates menacingly, but the wide look in his eyes is anything but. _“You must have a name or a title.”_

Unfamiliar with words of Norse, you pull thin legs closer to your body.

 _“Huh?”_ he hums, lifting a thick brow as he strokes his goatee. _“Ah...I forgot! You don’t speak Norse! In that case…”_ The synapses of Thorkell’s brain spark and surge for a ponderous moment before the English language pours: “What are you called?”

Blinking, you lift a round and guileless gaze to the sky. Endless and free.

Toward the moon, you point.

_Luna._

Thorkell follows the gesture, humming.

“Máni?” he speaks in clear Norse, breath huffing, coiling vapors, but then there's English: “Hm. Odd name for a girl, no?”

You will not correct him.

The waters below are hauntingly blackened and infinite, but the moon casts opalescent light along its surface, rippling as it may.

Máni is no romanticized _Goddess_ of ancient Roman mythology — as is the revered, softer nature of Luna — but, rather an Old Norse _God._ You know naught of this deity and his legends, told by word of mouth and heart, but the name settles upon you on this night. Both Luna and Máni are one and the same, nonetheless, belonging within you.

Tales of a wolf pursuing a nightly chariot. Of lunar eclipses, forging time, and the relentless _Hati._

Of Ragnarok.

**1002 A.D.  
❖** **  
****B A L T I C S E A** **  
****J O M S B O R G**

  
The first you see of Sigvaldi, Chief of the renowned Jomsvikings of the Baltic Sea, is when you are ushered into his throne room by the ginormous, guiding hand of Thorkell — and it’s warm, though not the Captain’s hand that covers your entire shoulder with a single palm, but the notably grand longhouse you cross into. It is not a warmth that alludes to an inviting air, but the _physical_ warmth of a fire and walls, thrown in tones of yellow and muted oranges along timber frames.

Ah. When was the last time you had been favored enough to relish the warmth of a fire on your skin? Months, perhaps more than that. Days and nights spent aboard a longship offered little else besides the constant spray of ocean water and a numbing cool breeze, even from the perch you’d taken for the sail — tucked by the vessel’s stern, curled and small, protected by the sword you carried, and it is _still_ strapped along your tiny frame by an old, oversized baldric and scabbard.

_A part of you._

Chief Sigvaldi rests atop a throne that is dressed in bear pelts and carved in the likeness of dragon heads by the ears of it. The chief himself is donned in material that is much the same — of layered pelts atop a finer tunic. Blond hair is tied back; a beard swallows up nearly half of his aged face. This man holds eyes of a deeper set and unmistakably brown, yet you can’t bear to stare at him for too long, or if you are even permitted to. Yes, he is military sovereignty. Even your young and famished mind can assess as such, standing before him at _Thorkell the Tall’s_ side, where the height difference alone is jarring.

The centered firepit is aglow and fierce, crackling, spitting flames.

Sigvaldi’s gaze sweeps over you. Once and thoroughly enough.

 _“What kind of slave carries a sword?”_ He speaks in the same foreign tongue as the rest. _“One she can hardly wield, no less?”_

Thorkell regards the Chief — the _Jarl_ — with a surprising amount of ease:

_“I don’t know, but I sure as hell am intrigued.”_

_“Can she speak?”_

_“Uh…”_ Thorkell pauses. _“Yes, of course, brother!”_

Sigvaldi points a hard stare toward your frame. Small, you are. He lifts a hand from its perch along the armrest, wide palm upward, and flicks his wrist in this ‘come hither’ gesture. Once.

_“Step forward, then, girl.”_

Rooted in place, you stare at Sigvaldi. He is addressing you, that is one thing you know for certain, though the words pass you by. What are you to do? Move? Regardless of the connotations, you are far from confident enough to act by what your instincts are telling — _screaming_ — at you to do if you are not certain.

You are young, yes, but you are not foolish.

This man’s words are unknown to you; could be of anything, and so, you don’t move.

Thorkell, however, gawks down at you before he returns this Jarl’s stare.

 _“Ah—I mean, of course, she can speak,”_ the warrior declares, gesturing with lively hands. _“However, I’m afraid she doesn’t understand Norse.”_

_“Then, what use is she?”_

_“She can learn!”_ Thorkell suggests this. _“Yes, she can learn! She’s still young enough to be conditioned, right?”_

A truth.

Sigvaldi eyes you. Over the sickly protrusion of bones beneath dirty skin.

The dull look in your eyes.

A pensive hum lingers in his throat.

 _“Examine her,”_ he orders an idle Jomsviking at his throne’s side.

The warrior is already in motion as the cloak fastened around his shoulder flaps and sways. With little regard for how much force your limbs can take before shattering, a Jomsviking warrior handles you. He glances at your nails, rolls your wrists, and pries open your mouth so wide that it feels as if your jaw may snap and break. Underneath the shadow of his helmet, you can hardly pinpoint the glare of his gaze scrutinizing your teeth, gums, and tongue. He clamps your mouth closed, teeth clattering before he inspects your hair, your feet — all over.

 _“Malnourished. Fragile. Weak,”_ the warrior assesses this, straightening to his full height. _“But, she is fit for servitude, Jarl.”_

Thorkell slaps a heavy and forceful palm along your puny back, stealing the air from your lungs, and there is hardly enough gathered within them for you to spare.

 _“Ah-ha! See, brother?”_ he gloats. _“She is a perfect slave for your standards!”_

With less than half the enthusiasm that his younger brother exhibits, Jarl Sigvaldi of the Jomsvikings declares:

_“She will do. Strip away her sword.”_

The same Dane — that had once twisted and stretched your limbs for an “examination,” gauging your possible level of servitude — is the one who peers down. He glances over the sheathed sword that is, perhaps, comically much too big for your little body. He scoffs at the prospect of it. And yet, it’s only when he descends, crouching before you, and when his hand emerges from beneath his white Jomsviking cloak to reach for the sword do you step back.

Defensive.

He barks out a laugh; tries again.

Evading him a second time, you move away.

With growing ire, the warrior reaches out for the sword a _third_ time, but you are not so easy, despite your disarming stature. Grunting, you grasp along the hilt of the sword at your side and draw it out as best as you can. The glint of it catches the center firepit’s flames. A long and drawn out _‘shhlnng’_ reverberates throughout the longhouse you stand within.

Thorkell stares down at you, brows high.

 _“Hm, she bares fangs,”_ he observes. _“How exciting.”_

Agitation rising within this Jomsviking, though elements of his pride may be woven within it, the warrior holds nothing back to snatch the sword from you now, but what is most unexpected is the way you muster all of your strength — emaciated and thin — to _swing_ at him. Missing flesh, the point of the sword catches the threads of the warrior's uniform cloak, tearing through as he flinches back. A close call. Angered by almost getting sliced by the clumsy hands of a _slave girl,_ the warrior raises a hand in preparation to backhand you, but Thorkell’s monstrous palm and fingers grasp his wrist, squeezing tight, strong enough to shatter bones.

 _“You disappoint me.”_ Thorkell’s tone is low, so threatening that even you wish to shrink away from it. _“You expect to be welcomed into Valhalla if you see a slave girl as so much of a threat? You’re no warrior...”_

Having witnessed enough, Jarl Sigvaldi sighs.

 _“This slave would do nothing but cause an uproar among our men, Thorkell,”_ he reprimands his brother. _“I don’t feel like dealing with it. Brother, do with her as you please. Her loyalty is yours.”_

 _“Huh? Me?”_ Thorkell echoes, clutching onto the poor soul’s wrist, but the Captain speaks casually so, _“What am I supposed to do with her?”_

 _“You should’ve left her where you found her, then,”_ says Sigvaldi.

Then, finally — _finally_ — Thorkell unclasps the wrist in his grip, allowing the warrior to fall back as he nurses the bruise sure to blossom in coming hours.

Surprised, Thorkell's eyes widen even more.

To assume that you hold no traces of a fighter’s spirit would be to ignore what’s right in front of him, despite your age, your gender, and your past. In truth, it intrigues the warrior more than it burdens someone of his nature. He crouches before you, forearms resting along his knees, but an odd smile thrives well on his lips.

You are still gripping the sword as if your life depends on it.

Ah — it _is_ your life.

Thorkell diverts his eyes to find that of his older brother’s, and he speaks with him in careful Norse:

 _“Women, let alone young girls often don’t train as a warrior does, but she seems as if she could be an exception.”_ He scratches at his goatee, thoughtful. _“I’m interested to see how she will fight on the battlegrounds. A lady warrior, hah! Our very own shield-maiden! That sounds ridiculous and entertaining! But, I look forward to it. So…”_

His gaze flits back to you as English spills for the _first_ time in hours:

“I will train you,” he promises this more than he proposes. “Teach you the ways of a warrior and our language.”

All but a voiceless vessel, the sword in your palms feels so much _heavier._ Balancing responsibility and expectations you hardly believe you can achieve, let alone survive. Mother. Father. Where are they now? Dead? Searching for you, perhaps back at the Humber River?

Sigvaldi straightens upon his throne.

 _“You’re insane, brother,”_ he condemns. _“You can’t expect this girl to survive your tutelage.”_

Thorkell’s grin stretches wider.

Maniacal, yes, if nothing else, though he doesn’t tear his gaze away from you; where warm tones of flames light up the side of your face — a face of softer wonder.

Potential.

“Come, _skjaldmær.”_

**1004 A.D.  
❖** **  
****N O R T H E R N E N G L A N D**

  
The first _kill_ of this lifestyle forced upon you is forever branded at the forefront of your mind. When the nights are far too still, when the silence invokes thought, when the regret rears its head. You’re only nine-years-old as the Jomsviking warship is berthed upon war-torn land; the scratched keel carving through sand jolting to a halt that nearly has you tumbling into the cape of a Viking who stands tall and rooted before you.

Such skirmishes between the Vikings and English soldiers are more of a common result these days. Even such knowledge — that which a nine-year-old should not trouble themselves with — does little to stave the hesitation running thick in your veins. To deboard the ship seems a task far too great. Instead, you watch as these warriors depart, trained; pristine cloaks carried by the wind as they charge with uniform tact — all the blood and all the gore.

Before now, the most bloodshed you’ve ever seen was back on the lands of Danelaw, during the massacre when English troops conducted an attack, and the bodies...all the bodies, too many bodies, and—

 _“Skjaldmær!_ Come! This battle rages for you! Ha-haha!”

Captain Thorkell.

Come. Fight.

If only…

England’s air bites and lashes against your skin as you clamber atop the longship’s gunwale, nails catching on the splintered timber before you hop from the ship’s height and into shallow waters. You’re soaked; coughing. Still — the battle _does_ rage. Battle cries, steel and iron and shields _clashing_ as sparks catch in the wind. With the legs of a fawn, drenched to the bone against this chilled air, you’re trying to gather your bearings to stand as the baldric of your sword presses against your waist. It all burns — your nose, your eyes, your throat. Where the ocean water covers you, and you can hardly gather your senses to think straight, though you haven’t even wandered into the fray yet.

It burns.

The water is freezing against your attire and skin, thoughts scrambling.

Fear. Terror.

It’s hard to grip the hilt of your sword like this, and—

“...a girl?”

Bemused, standing tall above your stature, an English soldier tries to make sense of why you’re there; lowers his own sword as he tries to reach for you, and yet…

...and yet.

Defenses reigning over common sense, the edge of your sword slices his palm with the wild flourish you attempt. The English soldier flinches, realizing fast that you’re an enemy above all else — disregarding age and stature, his expression twists into something sour when he takes a fistful of your hair. The scream that spills from your throat is real.

It feels as if your scalp is being torn and ripped in this grip that seizes you, desperate hands dropping your sword as it splashes to the shore and your fingers claw at the soldier’s wrist. Useless. It’s all useless in the end because he’s simply too strong for you — overpowering. Overwhelming. You’re all but _dunked_ into the shallow water where these waves lap across dampened sand, held down for long, long moments.

He’s trying to _drown_ you.

It’s when your wandering fingers dip into the water, feeling across the sandy bed of the shore to grasp a jagged rock that you muster the strength to sling it back, striking your assailant across the side of his head — the temple, most likely. The impact is sickening in its own right, hot blood splattering onto your already wet arm, drenching your damp hair when you manage to strike again, breaking the skin and perhaps shattering bone. As the soldier’s hold loosens from your scalp, you reemerge from the water with a rightful gasp, dripping. Crimson leaks from the rock clutched tightly in your palm, and you realize that the enemy is splayed atop the shore. Weak. Disoriented.

Vulnerable.

Gathering as much air into your starved lungs as you can, you clamber to your hands and knees as another wave crashes against you. However, your eyes are searching, reddened and wide — your sword. Where?

The gleam of it gives away its location beneath the rushing waters, and you’re quick to retrieve it in your panic.

A battle still carries on beyond the shoreline, on the mainland.

The last of it, at least, but…

“...wait...w-wait, please…”

 _Now_ he begs for life? After nearly robbing you of yours?

Of nine precious years?

Even as the weight of it strains against your shaking arms, you hoist your sword above your head, where the point of it aims at the center of this soldier’s chest. A downward plunge of your sword delves deep, puncturing through flesh and perhaps even bone, but it seems eerie as this moment falls into place — when your hands are soaked in blood as you watch the swirling stream of it blend and dissipate into the clearer water of this ocean.

You know what this is...even now.

Death.

War.

Know what _you_ are now.

Warrior.

Skjaldmær.

No tears blur your vision. No vocal cry to mark this moment.

There is nothing.

Nothing but this corpse and your small body slumping sideward, rolling into the frothing waves, yet again. _Numb._ Still clutching onto the hilt of your blood-stained sword. Your head aches, throbs, and your lungs feel as if there is salt water still rattling in there each time you breathe. How long you remain there, on the wet sand as this water kisses you repeatedly will forever remain unknown. Hours? Minutes? Perhaps, even seconds? Long enough for the skirmish to host its last wail, its last grate of iron tearing through flesh.

It’s not the familiar brush of your mother’s old slave tunic against your cheek that reels you back. Nor is it any old tales of Luna. Of your father’s voice over hushed waves.

Rather, it’s _Thorkell the Tall_ who gathers you from the sand.

“The first kill will stay with you,” he says, carrying you back toward the warship. “You did well, young _skjaldmær.”_

The only words to serve as an anchor.

  
  
  
  


**1010 A.D.** **  
 **❖****  
 **B A L T I C S E A** **  
****J O M S B O R G**

  
His breath is vile.

Unbearably _hot_ against the curve of your neck.

Burning.

This lowly newcomer of the Jomsvikings smells like sweat, days-old blood, and something absolutely rotted; musk of an unwashed beast, and it’s all you can _breathe_. Gods, you’d rather choke; would rather lose your sense of smell than endure the scent of him any longer. It’s sickening, curdling your insides when this man, this warrior of Danes, _moans_ against your ear — a graveling sound that makes you clench your eyes shut.

“Mm, you have such lovely hair, y’know that, dove?”

It’s a whisper against your jawline. The nudge of a crooked nose presses below your ear and slides from there to bury greedy, flared nostrils into the texture of your hair. It becomes harder for you to catch your breath, heart racing painfully behind your ribcage. Your fingers curl into fists atop the ground, catching dirt underneath your nails.

The lands of Denmark, just beyond these waters that surround Jomsborg's base, run rampant with women willing to throw themselves at the feet of celebrated warriors during Winter's downtime, though this insolent fool chooses you?

You, who would rather reject his advances.

You, a young lady warrior who devotes your life to warfare rather than those domestic arts of a common house maiden.

You, of _all_ women.

Aside from the desperate huffing of this repulsive twat forcing himself onto you, there is the sound of crackling fires and conversing men just beyond your reach; unaware. Asgeir’s voice is distinct, the first mate of the Captain, but Thorkell’s laughter booms and claps, and oh, how desperately you wish to call out, but that would be unbecoming of you. Not after you’ve come so far to prove yourself capable enough to walk shoulder-to-shoulder among these men, these Danes, these Vikings.

“C’mon, dove,” the brute sighs, rough fingers skittering along the hem of your outer-coat to slip beneath it. “You’re fillin’ in nicely the older you get, aren’t ya? Mm-hmm...Let me feel you, eh?”

No.

He allows himself the time to smell your hair, again. At most, all that he picks up is the scent of woodsmoke and sweat, though it doesn’t deter him from pressing both lips and nose into the nest of your hair. Only when a whimper falls from your mouth do you regather the will to resist. To fight. No. You will whimper for _no_ man.

Enough.

Enough—!

His body is stretched across yours and _bigger,_ and yet, your expression hardens.

No more—!

You take an ugly ear between teeth, clamping down — he yowls — and you _rip_ away the cartilage. Skin tears, splitting, and hot blood spurts along your lips and chin, but it pours down the side of _his_ face and stains the chainmail he wears. The brute’s scream is absolutely horrid as both of his hands reach to staunch the blood flow — and, off of your body. He scrambles from you, mouth wide open as he screams bloody murder to the night, but your mouth is nearly full. You turn, spitting out the severed ear and sour blood onto the ground.

“Argh! Ah!” he yells, and surely the entire band can hear him. “You filthy little bitch! You—I’ll kill you! I swear it! I will!”

Even so, you push yourself onto eager feet, storming toward the campfires.

Stumbling as you go, breath coming out in frosty vapors, you reach the area where the fires dance wildly. Scattered. Thorkell and his men are gathered around it, filling bellies with food and drinks, though it all simmers down at the sight of you. In the distance, yes, anyone can hear the lout yelling and thrashing about as he comes in for the chase. Blood drenches one side of his head, yet he keeps a bloody palm pressed where an ear _should_ be. He’s heaving.

_Seething._

“You!” he growls, but he is not looking _your_ way, but rather at another Dane that sits adjacent to where he stands, hunched. “Give me your axe! Now!”

It isn’t as if he waits for an answer or verbal permission before the earless bloke snatches the axe up from its rightful “owner” by the cracked haft. The fire glints along the axe’s chipped steel as the entirety of the army seem riled by the potential duel. The collective guffaw of battle-hardened men echoes across the night as embers rise to kiss their star counterparts. Your opponent starts a pace, stepping slowly, and you do the same, circling the fire. Breath caught, you rest a hand along the hilt of your sword where it’s strapped onto your frame by the baldric.

“Huh?” Thorkell utters, pushing himself up from where he once laid. “A duel? Ha-ha! Yes! It’s been far too long since we’ve had anything worth my attention! And, oh! It’s our little _skjaldmær?_ A first for everything…”

You don’t expect any of the Danes along the campfires to help you, no — they are Vikings, after all, and this is what they do. Live to fight. Live to die. All in battle. To reach Valhalla. They want to see a fight; _need_ to see a fight to sate them for the coming days, at least. The battlegrounds have been particularly stale since Winter has called for a pause in battle and further invasions upon England.

They want to see what you can do, in the meantime.

You are no novice with the sword anymore. No longer are you too weak to lift and hoist the weight of it, no longer clueless to the footwork that plays into proper swordsmanship. The hilt feels comfortable between your fingers — a firm grip; steady as you hoist it in front of you. Still — both you and your assailant pace along the centered fire, circling it, though your eyes are set on each other — studying, waiting, anticipating a move that would require a quick side-step and a counterattack.

Around you, the men cheer, booze spilling, all primed for a spectacle where the two of you size each other up, measuring the battle to come. You suspect that the man’s pride comes into play more than it does for you, given the long-standing fact that you hold a reputable penchant for drawing out inflated pride and crushing it by the heel of your boot in front of the very men who cherished it.

Tonight will be _no_ different.

If anything, you are more inclined to send him to Valhalla, if he is so desperate to go, though a part of you wishes he won’t make it so far. What warrior that uses his strength to assault a woman should make it?

“Argh!” he shouts as he lunges for you _first,_ axe drawn above his head, postured so that he can bring forth the momentum to slash it across you, but you won’t allow that, no.

Breathing out, you dip downward _and_ step sideward, dodging. He loses his footing, succumbing to the weight of the axe as he stumbles forward. Adrenaline is thick in his veins. He's careless, and _you’re_ still low, grunting as you flourish the edge of the sword up and along his gut. It’s fast. It’s swift. The blade is drenched, dripping, and your opponent crumples in on himself. He falls to his knees, hunched over as the axe tumbles, dust billowing. The fire still crackles, and the poor _bastard_ emits a wet sound from the base of his throat. No sooner, blood spills, spurting out as he coughs and chokes, but more fatal than that is the fact that he has to hold his innards from spilling across the ground.

Asgeir folds his arms across his chest, nodding to acknowledge your gallantry.

“She rises victorious!” Thorkell announces, inciting a roar of Vikings to thicken Jomsborg’s air.

Standing straighter among their praise, you raise and flick the blood from your sword, splattering this dry, wintry soil in a bloody crescent at your feet.

Like the waning moon. Of blood and death and war.

You are _skjaldmær_ of this lot of Vikings.

**1013 A.D.  
❖  
** **E N G L A N D  
** **L O N D O N B R I D G E**

  
October winds are fierce this year, but it hardly compares to the ruthless _flow of battle_ that unravels — or, should you say: _‘the flow of the world,’_ as Commander Floki of the Jomsvikings had so eloquently put it, all in a failed attempt to sway Thorkell into rejoining King Sweyn's army.

The subject of your loyalty is a _simple_ one.

Where Thorkell goes, you go.

Whether he is followed by hundreds of battle-worn warriors or none at all, is _not_ a concern that you burden yourself with. Beyond the workings of personal matters and obligation, the idea of remaining by the renowned warrior’s side is a smart choice. There has been no man that you’ve come across quite as capable as the Captain. No man that compares to the strength he possesses. It’s almost an inhuman characteristic — to lift boulders the size of stallions; to pitch logs half the length of full longships, like the scattered fleets of warships that litter River Thames, chasing for a taste of glory that’ll be _more_ than hard-won.

London Bridge has been adequately fortified for weeks on end, though you doubt it would’ve remained so, had Thorkell not offered up his undying and unrelenting joy of warfare to aid the English cause. Truth be told, he is a simple man. Of taunting words, a heart of war, and the physical composition of an ox. His motives are just the same — war-driven, along with dreams of _Valhalla_ and bloodshed by his hands.

Whether he and the warriors that follow him make it to their paradise matters naught to you as well. Religious parties, and the likes, are of no importance to you — at least, not now. Not in the midst of _war_ and whilst you stand on soaked battlegrounds, though most would disagree and declare that during such times, one should perhaps, _prioritize_ the subject of the afterlife, no matter the origins of it. No matter the religion it belongs to. And yet, contemplating those things only hinder you when you are out on the fields, sword in hand, armor unpolished and stained from harsh weather and blood alike.

Much like the matters of religion and faith, your political views are of little importance — for now. You care naught of which country rises victorious from this war. Dane or English. The neutrality of such a nature places you upon the same grounds as your leader, your infamous Captain, _Thorkell the Tall._ It only deems you fit for the job and all that he requires of you. So when Thorkell had unceremoniously declared that he would be fighting alongside England to hold London Bridge, you held no qualms toward the sudden shift. If anything, you felt nothing if not indifferent.

The goals and aspirations you’ve set for yourself are _vastly_ different from what these warriors strive for.

Your dreams are oddities.

Unspoken.

Nevertheless, archers are postured along London Bridge, where the tips of steel arrows are pointed downward at the wreckage of long sunken ships, floating bodies, and diluted streams of blood taint the river.

You are no archer, by any means, favoring the weight of the _sword_ over all else.

And so, there is little use of you. Close combat is an occurrence that never transpires, given that the Danish fleets have been failing miserably at sailing in close enough to launch an attack of the sort. As soon as they are within range of the bridge, Thorkell tosses logs and boulders of a great enough mass to destroy and sink any vessel in a second's time.

Then, his laughter will roar.

Absolutely _wild._

As for you?

You’ve been posted by London Bridge’s Southern gatehouse — on standby. Over four-hundred feet away, you can distinctly pick out the guffaw of Thorkell at the center of the bridge. He is having the time of his life, no doubt, whilst you’re leaning against the timber structure, studying the bridge’s defenses. England's army operates quite differently than that of Denmark's. At your side, Asgeir accompanies you, for he too, is a man of the sword rather than weapons of range. The Viking twirls the long braided beard of his chin, observing as Thorkell mocks incoming fleets and warships:

“What’s wrong with Sweyn’s army?!” he taunts, hoisting a timber log upon his shoulder. “Why don’t you come up with something?! I know you can do better if you try! At this rate, you won’t capture London Bridge. Not even in a hundred years…!”

When Thorkell’s taunting falls silent, both you and Asgeir regard each other for a moment.

“Something’s happened,” Asgeir assumes, peering out over the River Thames.

“Hm. Most likely,” you agree, stepping out onto the bridge to get a view of what has captured the Captain’s attention so suddenly.

Upon the view you’re granted, there is nothing but a distant sight of an approaching longship, Vikings rowing along its deck, though it is the figure that’s perched atop the mast. A person? A man? What on earth…? Is he mad? Even so, you will readily admit that the amount of balance he holds is quite impressive, though perhaps that is only one small perk amongst many. Blond, untamed hair — a lion’s mane — is carried in the wind of the ship's speed as it veers.

Closer, closer, until—

The man tosses the shield away and takes off in a sprint along the mast’s length.

Is he…?

Damn!

“He’s going for the Captain,” you announce, swift enough to snatch Asgeir’s shield from his grasp as he grunts.

“What the—! You!?” he grates, but you are much too fast, already taking off in a run along London Bridge, toward its center where the battle will surely unravel. “Damn it! You owe me another shield, ya got that?!”

There is no reason for you to harbor such haste. Thorkell is of the strongest warriors the Danes have to offer, so without a doubt, he can handle the odd fellow who has just leaped cleanly onto the bridge, evading the log that the Captain has swung at him. And yet, from the distance that you have to cross, it will take you some time to reach the altercation, but soon you will. Nothing will hinder that fact.

Your old, leather baldric and sheathed sword clatter along your torso and waist, footsteps echoing on timber wood. The shield in your hand is hoisted up and above your head, protecting you from incoming and airborne arrows from the fleets along the River Thames. The arrows are constant, whizzing by, thudding hard into the wood of the shield, but it keeps you _alive._

Up ahead, you can still hear the duel taking place. Of splitting wood, war cries, the sharp sounds of wielded blades, and Thorkell’s provocative words. The constant, repetitive thudding of a body being tossed to and fro by the Captain’s strength. Whoever the challenger is, he is being _pummeled_ down.

The fleets below begin to veer off, war drums signaling a retreat.

More importantly, you’re closer.

Nearly there.

And...

By the time you rush in on the scene, breathing hard and winded as you stand among the gathered crowd of English and Danish soldiers, the duel is on its last legs.

There, pressed and partly collapsed against the bridge’s ruined barrier, is the same young man that had managed to leap across the distance from a ship’s angled mast. A risky move, yes, but he is still there. Breathing. Alive. Albeit by threads of will. He hoists a single dagger in front of him, ready. His other arms rests, practically dead and limp at his side, but Gods, does he heave and gulp in massive amounts of air to breathe. It’s nearly the sound of a feral growl that falls from his lips, brown eyes wild with instinctive aggression. And, his hair. An unruly mess of blond; dirty and tangled.

Like a cornered _beast._

Shifting your attention toward Thorkell, something in your stomach twists.

The bloody blade of another dagger _protrudes_ through his palm and out from the _back_ of his hand — two fingers are _missing,_ and he’s spilling blood.

“Oh…?” Thorkell breathes, and you can tell by his tone that he is intrigued. “You still haven’t lost the will to fight? You’re good.”

Your Captain grips the dagger’s hilt, unfazed, pulling the blade from his hand before he tosses it where it clatters and bounces away to land unsettlingly close to your boots. You glance down at it, then back to the scene of them.

“Warrior,” Thorkell addresses him. “Tell me your name.”

The injured one sucks in more air. Gaze sharp.

Voice crisp:

“Thorfinn, son of Thors…I’m _Thorfinn.”_

Ah…

Distant involuntary memories trickle in, scattered and elusive. Real.

Of bare feet on fallen leaves. A gentle stream. Tattered tunics. Honey-brown eyes. Autumn gales. Mother. Father. A lone wolf. Bloody dagger. Heavy sword. Blond hair. A boy. Him.

Thor...finn.

_Thorfinn._

Memories long forgotten, flooding back from one name which sounds familiar, but also a name which has been discarded years ago so that it is only a quiet echo in the chasm of your memories. And yet, as if drawn in, as if those fragments from a time before will disappear without the physical sight of him, you can’t allow your stare to waver from this man’s for too long. No—but, _yes._ Honey-brown eyes.

“Hm? Thors?” Thorkell utters instead, tone colored with familiarity, focusing on another aspect of this warrior’s identity, though you are both stunted. “Thors? Do you mean—?”

But, Thorfinn shifts, hurtling himself from London Bridge to dive into cool waters below. Chasing after him, Thorkell grips the barrier, staring out at where Thorfinn floats and swims to retreat with the rest that left him behind.

“Hey! Warrior Thorfinn!” the giant man calls out to him. “That was fun! Let’s do this again! Let’s finish things off next time! Promise me!”

Meaning to follow on shaken legs, and with a chest that feels like something’s stirring endlessly between your lungs, you take a step. Something clatters. The dagger at your feet, bloody against chipped and scratched wood. Who knows the tales that this small blade would tell if it could. All the men slain by its edge and point, or how often it has been wielded between the palms of Thorfinn, son _of Thors._

And so, you pick it up by the hilt — the one component of it that is _not_ drenched in sickly crimson.

 _“Skjaldmær…”_ Thorkell calls you by the epithet. “Come.”

“Yes?” you utter back in easy Norse.

“Follow that warrior,” he asks of you. “His _bloodline_ is one that can’t be ignored. Especially by me.”

You glance down at the dagger in your grasp.

“Follow him for how long and far?” you press. “Their forces are retreating to the North. If anything, they will begin marching soon. You expect me to follow them for that long?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“For however long it takes for you to find out where warrior Thorfinn has come from.”

A distant vagueness settles in Thorkell’s eyes, and you cannot bring yourself to refuse.

**1013 A.D.** **  
****❖  
** **E N G L A N D  
** **O U T S K I R T S O F B A T H**

  
Little surprise, it is, for you to discover along your trail of reconnaissance, that Askeladd’s band of one-hundred men opt to separate from the main army of Denmark, in favor of stopping along the outskirts of Bath, plundering a village to quell insatiable greed and bloodlust. However, to your surprise, Thorfinn takes no part in the raid. As his fellow warriors slash down men and women, barge through homes to steal away goods and food, he keeps a distance. Uninterested.

That, in and of itself, is a recurring phenomenon for Thorfinn.

Distance. Something impersonal and withdrawn, even from his own comrades.

Instead, as the night draws near, veiling the land in a bleak blanket of pale moonlight, Thorfinn wanders to seek seclusion. Other Vikings have gathered around campfires, sorting through goods they’ve plundered from the ravaged homes and bodies. They speak in loud tones, drifting across the land with the sound of laughter and roguish words. It’s a nightly routine that bears similarities to the clan of Vikings you travel with. Of Captain Thorkell’s men and Asgeir. Yes, it’s partly true that Vikings bear a tradition that remains the same, despite where ties and loyalties stand.

Still — you observe, perched along the wooded outskirts of the village.

Thorfinn meanders through, silent, as he finds refuge in the village’s stables. It’s unoccupied. Quiet. No wonder he would prefer it. And you, deeming it a fair chance to confront him, follow after. Back pressed against the stable’s paddock, you remain crouched as you peek around the corner of it, peering inside, but—

It’s empty?

Breath stalled, you enter despite the stillness, feet light upon strewn straws of hay and dirt. Your hand settles along the hilt of your sheathed sword at your hip. How is it empty? You swear that you saw Thorfinn retreat inside of the stables.

A single, faded-black stallion whinnies from within a stall, ears flitting in your direction.

Your eyes are searching, darting across the crevices and shadows, and then you _feel_ it — the rushing sensation which washes over one side of you.

The way your instincts flare.

He’s there—!

Thorfinn lunges from jagged shadows, dagger poised. Staggering, you draw your sword in time to parry. Sparks fly, steel clashes, but Thorfinn’s already moving in for _another_ strike. Too fast! With no time to counterattack, you jump back _and_ away. That's right. Give yourself space to prime. Breathe. It’s the only way you’d survive. With short-range weapons such as daggers, you’d learned long ago that they have the advantage at closer combat — so, you try to build some maintainable distance while he aims to close in, tearing it back down.

Dagger flipped in his palm for a new grip, he’s dashing in, again.

No wonder Thorkell had sustained an injury from him; this nimble man.

His strike comes in at another angle, taking advantage of the sour fact that you bear no chainmail to cover vital spots. The edge of his dagger nearly shears away at your middle, but you scramble backward a second time. _Back, back, back_ until your spine collides with the rickety stable wall, and mounted tack gear falls.

He has you cornered. Damn!

He _is_ good.

Sword in hand, you hoist it high for defense as Thorfinn’s rapid feet cross the distance all over again. Persistent and unrelenting. You barely have time to breathe. To think! So, this is how he fights? How he tires out and flusters his opponents? Suitable for his choice of weapon and stature.

Grunting, Thorfinn dives in, thrusting his dagger along your sword’s hilt to knock it from your grasp. Sword airborne, you are defenseless, then. Mind racing, thoughts discombobulated, your steps falter, still cornered against the stable wall, and there’s nowhere you can go. The edge of Thorfinn’s dagger carves a new path through cold air and towards your neck, until—

“Thorfinn!” you call out, desperate, with sweat along your brow.

He halts, frozen, where the point of his blade _presses_ against your jugular.

The stallion snorts, stomping a hoof onto the dirty ground, of muck and mud.

Glaring beneath blond fringe and darker brows, the warrior utters this:

“Huh...”

As if he’s both annoyed and intrigued that you know his name, but his breath comes out in a cloudy huff, curling and dispersing along your face. Brown eyes canvas the sight of you, and you can tell that he’s trying to figure out who you are, staring hard — at the way your breath huffs out in faded vapor, the lines of your face, and he’s searching.

Searching, searching…

“Who are you?” his voice drops, interrogating with an edge; and such a _threatening_ edge, at that.

The first name that comes to mind is _Máni,_ but that is only a nickname that Captain Thorkell and his men are fond of addressing you with, if not the earned title of _skjaldmær._ It is not what Thorfinn would remember you by, no. Positioned behind and high above Thorfinn’s head, through the stable’s open space of its thatched roof, you blink up at the full moon, and perhaps Thorfinn only feels this confusion bubbling in his chest, agitation growing as he growls:

“…What are you _getting_ at?”

Then, it hits him.

The moon?

“You…?”

The tone you speak to him with is disarmingly _soft:_

“Luna.”

Your lost soubriquet.

Despite the way his eyes widen, or the _cold_ breath that’s caught in his throat, Thorfinn is back to a degree of hostility. As if it is the only mode he knows how to function by, and it's a sadder revelation, if that is the case, though you are not too far off from that particular spectrum. Within this line of work, this constant strain, this turmoil of death and war, and the promised paradise of Valhalla — in the end, you’re not entirely certain a woman such as yourself will even make it there.

Religion is a fickle thing to you, now.

At most, you will be deemed the title of _Valkyrie,_ if nothing else of merit.

But, Thorfinn? Thorfinn is regarding you with a look of suspicion.

“Better have a damn good excuse for why you're _stupid_ enough to follow me,” he prods. “Are you scouting? Sent to give our location away to the enemy? Huh?!”

You shake your head to deny those accusations, skin scraping against the point of his dagger’s blade where it’s still pressing dangerously close to your larynx. _No,_ because the truth is more complicated than that. You were sent after him because Thorkell wanted to keep eyes on Thorfinn...and _only_ Thorfinn. Not the rest. Not even their cunning leader, Askeladd.

“Captain wishes to know of your origins. Believe it or not...wants you to stay _alive.”_

For now. Until their paths cross.

Until Thorkell can snuff the life out of him by his own hands and axe.

All the more bemused, Thorfinn is reluctant to withdraw his dagger, yet he does, and fragmented memories of his battle against Thorkell resurface. Grimacing, he rests a hand on his aching shoulder.

“Why would that...that _madman_ want to keep eyes on me?”

You lift careful fingers to gingerly rub at the spot where his blade once pressed along your throat.

“Thorkell is always searching for an opponent worth his time,” you tell him. “He knows _something_ about you, it seems. Something I don't know. Something maybe even you don't know—”

“Quit dragging and tell me…” he hisses, suddenly. “You’re not dumb enough to plan some half-assed ambush on us, are you?”

“What would be the point of that?” you reply, and finish with a succinct: “No.”

Still cradling his shoulder, Thorfinn steps away from you, offering space to breathe and think and _move_. Legs weaker than you last recalled, you slide down to the stable’s ground, knees defensively drawn. He stares down at where you sit, and the glint of your discarded sword catches moonlight. You don’t bother to reach for it.

Those eyes of his are deadly. Sharp.

“...Well?” he utters, plainly so, as if he’s waiting for you to say or do something worth the time you demand.

Is there anything left for you to say? To do?

You shift, blinking when the small hilt of a sheathed dagger digs into your waist. And, with that, you remember that you have his second dagger, lost back at London Bridge. You take it out, and still, it feels so light in your palm compared to the weight of your sword.

“You left _this_ behind,” you tell him. “Don’t worry, I’ve cleaned it.”

You toss it over to him, where the blade scrapes against straw and dirt at his feet.

Thorfinn glares at you, but he dips down to pick it up, nonetheless. After sheathing it, he walks toward a cornered pile of hay and nearly sinks into it, but he stares at you again.

“You found me. Now what?” he provokes. “You'll go back, tell that damned big oaf where we are, and then he comes after us?”

No, after _you,_ is what you want to tell him, but the words are stuck.

Instead, you swallow and look down, to admit:

“I don’t know.”

Thorkell has never sent you out to follow _anyone_ before, so there must be something about Thorfinn, far beyond your previous encounters as abandoned children along the Humber River. Something else. Something noteworthy, and you can’t help but stare at him again because of that. What’s so special about him? This man of tangled hair, stained garments, and an attitude worth less than pennies.

Thorfinn scoffs at your silence.

_“Pathetic.”_

As if there are ashes on his tongue.

Thorfinn, perhaps, has always had clearer purposes when he does tasks for his respective leader, but you seem to hold an outlook toward your battles and tasking with far different eyes. But, maybe, he just doesn’t understand the concept of unconditional loyalty. The _loyalty_ you hold for Thorkell. The kind of loyalty you hold when you ask for little, if _nothing,_ in return for your servitude and skill but a place of belonging.

To your surprise, amid heavier thoughts, Thorfinn lays down atop the hay, blond hair splayed messily as moonlight spreads across him.

Is he...resting?

You stare at him for a moment.

Did he not see you as a threat? It is an insult, truly — that he would lay down in your presence. Your fingers curl into fists against the dirt and your expression hardens. But, what else can you do? You are not meant to engage with him. Nor his men. You’ve done your job.

“Still here?” Thorfinn growls, only adding salt to wounds.

Damn him.

With that, you stiffen, and push yourself to your feet and gather your sword, sheathing it.

The sound is sharp, though Thorfinn doesn’t stir.

Scowling, you turn to leave him in the dirty stables to rest as he pleases.

On the way out, crouched low and steady, you nearly reach the treeline just beyond the raided village’s perimeter before a disembodied voice of the night discloses itself. Of an aged and experienced lilt, carrying undertones of curiosity:

“He let you live?”

Startled, you halt, gripping at your sword, though you don’t draw it from its sheath when the wonder reveals himself. Standing tall, short wheat-yellow hair and a goatee to match fill your vision. Askeladd, leader of the men who ravage this devastated village, steps forth from the shadowed corner of a tucked-away house.

He stares at you, of ice-blue eyes and thick brows as the wind howls.

“Remind me,” he sighs, and then asks, _“Luna,_ was it? Or did I mishear?”

You stare at him as an answer.

Most disconcerting is the amount of ease and nonchalance he holds toward you. There is no trace of fear, no hesitance, or anything of the sorts. If Askeladd is the embodiment of the type of men that Thorfinn has been around for the past years, then it comes as no surprise that he, too, carries an air of fearlessness. As foolish as it is.

Wary of his intentions, you step back, and the older man continues:

“Goddess of the _moon._ Roman. I must ask, where do you hail from to hold that nickname, woman? What connection to the old nation of Britannia does your blood carry?”

You blink at him, then, and your grip is tight, but you don’t seem keen on answering any time soon. Your business is _your_ business, and Askeladd seems diligent enough to understand your posture and body language to comprehend that.

He sighs, again, waving you off.

“Get out of my sight, or would you prefer that my men strike you down?”

An outright threat. Your eyes widen as you look to the tree line — so close — before dashing for it.

**H O U R S L A T E R**

  
Thorfinn stands, dark cloak rippling when heavier winds blow. He couldn’t bring himself to sleep that night. No. Not with the hay scratching constantly at his neck as he writhed and turned; the rowdy howls of his clan circled around fires; the nightmares of home, and those threads of pale light that descended from where the moon stared back at him. All intrusive.

And yet, the collapsed Roman pillars that surround him where he's now perched atop the hill, are ancient, yet they are a glorious contrast to those open rolling fields of the land he stares out upon. Strands of tangled, flaxen hair blow forwards, catching in his darker lashes, but his gaze is set.

 _A fertile land.  
_ _It’s like the land I saw in my dream._  
 _It’s really different from Iceland.  
_ _I bet the snow is piling up around now._

His breath billows before him.

“You’re up early, Thorfinn.” Askeladd observes from nearby, holding an old coin between rough fingers. “The _sun_ hasn’t even come up, yet.”

☽


	2. Torch in the Storm

**— II —  
** **T O R C H I N T H E S T O R M**

_  
“Remember this, always.”_

_A protective hand wraps around yours, threading between tiny fingers, and Mother lifts her other palm upright; heavenward. Toward Danelaw’s stretched clouds; overcast. Droplets pelt against the lines of her skin. It is only a scattered drizzle, raindrops falling atop your head, loitering the round crest of your cheek when you peer upwards, searching for your mother's gaze. The rivulets spill along the curve of your face, eyes blinking, and your lashes are drenched._

_Summer rain._

_“You are no disgrace because of the blood you bear, nor by the blood our ancestors have spilled. What we're doing...we're merely paying the price of it,” she reminds you, words somber, echoing across generations of long-sufferance and this soft rainfall. “Any surviving believers of Artorius' legend will curse our bloodline for eternity, but we must prevail — you will prevail, little one. Far, far from here.”_

_It is not the first time she’s shared this with you. Grim words of a reality that you must live with on your mother's chapped lips. Not the first time you’ve been reminded of the crime your ancestors have committed, five-hundred years ago._

_It is not the first time you learn of humanity’s cruelty._

_Of hatred._

**1013 A.D.** **  
****❖  
** **E N G L A N D  
** **M A R L B O R O U G H**

His Highness, _Prince Canute,_ speaks of naught.

Even whilst there is bloodshed over him.

Upon your return to forces under Captain Thorkell’s command, perhaps the sight of Prince Canute, second in line to succeed the Danish throne, should perturb you more than it does. He is of royalty, though it does little to affect the way you see him — a man spoiled by riches, pliable retainers, and the promise of power dangling right in front of him if he so wishes to attain it. All within the pretty palm of his hand, where there are, perhaps, no callus to mark the strain of physical labor or struggle. No, you’d wager all the silver you’ve ever earned that Prince Canute has never seen a day’s hard work in his life.

For Thorkell to have taken the prince captive is not at all a proper shock to you, either. His reasons behind the act of what most would consider treason, are shallow to the common eye, though warriors are more likely to see _some_ inkling of sense within it. Always on the search for a battle capable of allowing him to get a glimpse of Valhalla, Thorkell had claimed that King Sweyn and his army has been adamant about relinquishing the London Bridge. Naturally, the Captain is not a man who works and fights only to be overlooked, or to be ignored. Such circumstances are worse than _death_ for a warrior.

Ragnar and all the soldiers placed under his command, ruled by Prince Canute, had also adopted the same approach: To standby, not to engage in battle, though it seems more likely that Ragnar is simply preserving the wellbeing of his silent prince. To say that they’ve brought this outcome onto themselves would be an understatement on your end. Nevertheless, the sky itself is overcast. Plumes of blackened smoke and raging flames rise over the forest. The battleground is convoluted with forces — of Thorkell’s unit, of Ragnar and His Highness's army, and of the sudden presence of Askeladd’s men.

Only when the battle has concluded — having handed over Prince Canute to Askeladd’s army — does the real chase light fire to its torch.

**1013 A.D.** **  
****❖  
** **W E S T E N G L A N D  
** **S E V E R N R I V E R**

Beyond the waters are the jagged mountains of Wales.

The lands along the banks of the Severn River are barren and golden. The grass is tall, wisp-like, and whispering in the breeze that carves through early noonday. Across terrain that has seen nastier weather, muddy trails, and a sudden bout of rainfall during the nights. The horses whinny from the carts and there are few favored souls lucky enough to remain on horseback for the march — you are one of them.

Your aged stallion nudges the cold palm of your hand, greedy snout tickling as he devours the oats you offer.

A part of you fears he won't make it through Winter.

By the edge of the river’s grassy bank, the Captain and Asgeir stand among a trio of scouts that have recently returned from tailing Askeladd’s army. Their words are far from hushed, though with the distance from where you stand, deciphering their words is hardly an easy task, but not _impossible._

“So…” Captain Thorkell begins, thick arms folded across a broad chest. “You’re saying a ship carried them across the river? Do you know whose ship it was?”

“No. I’m not sure,” answers one. “The fog was thick as goat’s milk.”

“It wasn’t a Norse ship,” adds a second. “It didn’t have a dragonhead.”

“It was kind of pudgy,” the third says.

“Hmm,” Thorkell ponders. “That doesn’t sound like one of King Sweyn’s ships. In any case, we can’t follow Thorfinn anymore. I underestimated them.”

**1013 A.D.** **  
****❖  
** **E N G L A N D  
** **E A R L D O M O F M E R C I A  
**

_God.  
_ _Are you watching?  
_ _Did my father, my mother, my grandmother, my brothers, and my sisters arrive over there?  
_ _You aren’t going to call me there, too, right?  
_ _Right? Because...I feel elated now.  
_ _I can’t believe...I can’t believe such evil people exist.  
_ _I can’t believe there are people who aren’t afraid of your punishment.  
_ _Just like the moment I stole this ring.  
_ _I feel...elated now.  
  
_

Twilight breaks into dawn.

Mercia drowns in snow and her people are now reclusive, sheltered indoors where glowing hearths keep them warm between the walls of their homes — if they are so fortunate to have one. Those left to the elements hardly survive the Winter months. This brings forth the question and confusion as to why on Earth this young lady is collapsed against the forest’s bed of snow, sunken deep.

Fiery hair.

Bestrewn with snowflakes.

A ring clings to a frostbitten finger, nails cracked as she makes a fist, gathering snow when she rouses.

She only stirs after a long moment’s pause, with your pointed look upon her from above.

The first sight this girl sees, aside from the vastness of snow and the high morning moon, is _you._ Of the coarse fox fur mantle snug along your neck and shoulders, where its lengthier guard hairs shiver in the wintry gale, specked by flakes. Of the cloak that dances in the wind, stretching along the length of your body to brush against the ground’s glistening surface. Of the way your scrutiny sets upon her beneath those lashes, dusted with wisps of snowfall. Yes, she stares and stares, lips painfully dry and blue, drained of color and blood.

Eyes the shade of golden moss wander to you, gaze turning misty.

Like a girl realizing and laying eyes on some _guardian angel_ for the first time.

“Oh…?” she croaks.

Wordless, you blink down at her, bearing a staid expression.

“You’ve...been sent to me...by God, haven’t you?” she keeps on.

English.

Christian.

Devoid of a reply, you glance around the surrounding land. There are no towns here, no lonely house, no sign of life for her to be left there. It is only the whistle of unforgiving wind, soughing through bare branches, and a stretch of Winter woodlands. So, then how? Why?

You look to her again, gaze southward and unreadable.

“Why are you here?” your voice carries this. Leveled.

She could ask the same of you, but you are not the one clinging to the last threads of life and sanity. You stand tall against this harsh place and the morning moon that rivals the rising sun of twilight. This young lady, however, sucks in a sharper breath; seems uneased by the question. She worries her lower lip, where the flesh is so cracked that it _splits_ and bleeds against her teeth.

“They…” she starts, tone wavering. “They...killed _everyone.”_

“They?”

A stronger gust comes alive, ripping through. Long, red hair tangles around her face and she makes a feeble sound, but you’re silent, expecting an answer.

“They were...Danes,” she says. “M-Monsters—they slaughtered...my village...they—”

“How many?” you clip her laments short, impatience building. “How many men were there?”

Swallowing dryly when the air scratches at her throat, the girl shakes her head.

“Too many…”

Your eyes narrow, contemplating.

“Are you alone?” you press on.

Lone Survivor.

The girl heaves another trembling breath, frosty mist curling out.

“...I am.”

Hidden beneath the warmth and length of your cloak, you place a careful hand over the hilt of your sword. She doesn’t have the slightest idea of how your fingers curl around the cold haft. It would be an act of rare mercy on your half if you strike her down right there. Right now. She has nothing left to live for; you can see it in her eyes — that dead vacancy of a person who’s lost faith in humanity. Yes, you know that look well, have worn it on your face more than most would assume.

From within, she is already dead.

You will grant her release from this world. Give a gift to her God.

You move to unsheathe your sword, eyes set on her throat, but—

“They are still there,” she tells you. “The...the Danes are still...at the village.”

Either this girl is blessed by her Father, or cursed for unspoken sins by the Devil that her kin loathe.

Regardless, your hand falls from the hilt.

She may be better off spared.

“You’re certain of that?” you prod.

“Yes...Yes, I am,” she assures, finding some paltry of strength to push herself onto snow-soaked knees. “All of our food...o-our supplies...they’re—”

The girl chokes and clenches her eyes closed.

A bounding rabbit that _should_ be burrowed in its den for the winter scurries somewhere behind you.

“Will you show me where your village is?” you ask of her, finally sparing empathy to crouch closer. “I will take you back to the town where my men are resting for the winter months. You’ll be provided food, water, and warmth at the tavern. We can chase those Danes away from your village. We can strike them down if given the chance.”

You offer a promise this girl doesn’t know she wishes for.

More than salvation, than forgiveness, and even more than the mercy she begs endlessly for. She wishes for _revenge,_ though her sweet, blessed Lord and all of whom she’s lost will frown upon her from the heavens above.

☽

With winter’s arrival the snow runs deep, the air bites like a rabid wolf, eating away at skin and flesh, and most of all there is a physical hindrance to marching.

You remain true to your promise, spoken amongst blinding snow and the pale maiden of slain villagers — _Anne_ is her name. She feels the need to divulge her personal matters to you along the way; to include her age, the names of her fallen family and friends, and all things of the sorts. Although you do not recall ever asking for it. Perhaps, she takes you for a friendly face? Yes, perhaps. You are indeed a lady, donned in fox furs and attire woven for the winter months. You’re strong. Stronger than her, at least, and the revelation of that easily lifts the worry from her lithe shoulders. She feels safer with you. It’s a foolish thing for her to display — this dependence, this frail backbone — then again, it does you well to remember that she has not been through the same string of tribulations as you have. Not the combat training, the developed endurance for pain and loss, the thicker skin to stand among brutes twice your size and strength.

She is not the same.

No, _you_ are not the same compared to most maidens.

Something you must remember.

Nonetheless, you lead her back to the town of Gloucester. It is only then, that you hand her off to the local forces, where they feed and care for her as you had promised long before. In return, she spills the details that she can better remember from her trauma. Of at least one-hundred Danes invading and attacking her village.

Gloucester’s Lord deploys English soldiers to drive out and rid the Danish unit from the lands.

The message containing those details are quickly passed on to Captain Thorkell.

And, ah, yes...the torch of the chase, within the breath of winter’s storm, does not die out so easily.

**1013 A.D.** **  
****❖  
** **E N G L A N D  
** **E A R L D O M O F M E R C I A  
** **U P P E R S E V E R N R I V E R**

Askeladd’s men are fickle.

Their leader kneels on inches of blood-soaked snow, arrowheads burrowed into his flesh — the legs, more severely. And yet, there is still an air of pride that emanates from this man. The point of his blade is buried in snow, providing him the support to prop himself against it as rivulets of blood fall from a wound along his brow. Fresh, but shallow, though it will leave a battle scar for ages to come if he survives long enough to marvel at the sight of it. His armor, notable enough, is hardly scratched to tell of places where iron has made contact. He never gave them the chance to strike him, it seems. However, it is the puncture of arrows — of _damned_ arrows — that have downed him before Thorkell and his unit, including you and Asgeir, had entered the battle of barbaric treason.

Nothing of the sorts is particularly novel among the customs of Vikings, though it is still heavily frowned upon.

Only cowards abandon the men that lead them without good cause.

The battle has raged on for long minutes, now. Bodies stain and crowd the wintry blanket in stark splatters of crimson. One must be mindful of their footing among the line of corpses and lost weapons. It is not a pleasant thought to ponder over the pain and inconvenience of stepping onto a stray blade or some splintered wood of shattered hafts and shields. Besides the hazardous terrain, is the bite of cold. Knuckles are splitting, skin bit by frost, and there is hardly enough _feeling_ to know whether one is gripping onto his weapon tight enough.

Most distracting for you is the way your throat _burns._

How your eyes water and _sting_ with unforgiving winds.

“Gargh!” you growl, body pirouetting as you drive the edge of your sword _deep_ along the throat of an axe wielder.

Blood sprays, coating the fur of your aged mantle.

Still, another warrior sprints in before the body has time to drop. Grunting like most fighters do, exerting energy, he raises his sword for a downward slash, two-handed as he brings his blade down. Your sword is quicker, parrying his and forcing it off-course. He hisses, but you don’t fear him. The move is clean as you flourish your blade along his thigh. He topples to his knees, teeth bared, and he tries to ward off your incoming strikes with the flat end of his blade for defense. And yes, he blocks a few of your attempts, coming in quick succession, though he isn’t prepared for the way your boot rises to his chest, shoving him down into the snow, supine.

And there, the head of a fallen spear pierces through his chest from where he’d landed, forced down by the sole of your foot. Blood spurts from his mouth and he’s gone in an instant. A quick, merciful death.

Those are the kind you prefer to deliver.

To Valhalla, they all go. By your hand, your will and skill.

A hawk flies overhead. The shadow of it dances across the land, and—

“What’s that?!” a jarring voice yells.

The pitched neigh of a steed carries over the howl of wind and clashing iron of battle.

Clutching the reins of the bay stallion he’s mounted on, is Thorfinn, Son of Thors, faithfully riding in, pushing through fighting men but the path he steers for leads to your Captain.

To Thorkell.

On horseback.

“Thorfinn!” Thorkell all but greets the warrior in gleeful tones.

The horse gallops in, hooves heavy, and you point a worried look toward Thorkell.

It still surprises you, how often you find yourself fretting over the Captain’s wellbeing when he has proven time and time again that there is no man that walks along these lands that can strike him down. No one that is strong enough, brave enough, to hold their own against the likes of him. There is no need for your worry, but it bubbles and curdles in your chest and gut every single time, but for good reason.

You should hate Thorkell.

Taking into account the amount of utter shite that you’ve been burdened with under his command; yes, you should most definitely loathe him. And yet, you cannot bring yourself to hold those sentiments of hatred toward the warrior. He has thrown you to the wolves of this world, where there are a great number of men and warriors who doubt your credibility of holding the title of _Skjaldmær._ They’ve sought to tear you down on countless occasions. Have belittled your skill and devotion. Have marred you with their scorn and mockery, but the only reason...the _only_ reason you’ve prevailed is because of _Thorkell the Tall._

Of his admiration toward your fighter’s spirit.

The chance he took on you, eleven years ago.

Gods, yes, you _should_ hate Thorkell, though perhaps a part of you already does, and yet...

It is so that your heart races with concern as Thorfinn rides in on a speeding horse; that is, until—

A massive fist digs into the stallion’s breast, uppercutting the animal with devastating power. Both Thorfinn and his steed are airborne, though it is only Thorfinn that lands squarely into a balanced crouch whilst the distressed animal collapses to the ground in an explosion of snow and a pained whinny.

Strength unparalleled.

“Thorfinn!” Thorkell belts once more, arms spread open in an invitation for further conversation. “You look like you’ve been doing well!”

“Don’t touch Askeladd!” Thorfinn bellows, voice scratching. “He’s my catch! If you lay even one finger on him, I’ll kill you! Got it, big guy! If you touch him, I’ll kill you!”

“Your catch?” Thorkell echoes, puzzled as he points to where Askeladd kneels behind him. “He’s your boss, right?”

“He’s not my boss!” Thorfinn bites back. “Give me Askeladd. If you don’t, I’ll kill you!”

“Really?” comes Thorkell's reply. “Then, I’m not going to. Did you hear that, everyone?! Thorfinn and I just agreed to duel over Askeladd! You guys are the witnesses! If you win, I’ll give him to you. I’ll even give you a horse!”

The breath that fills your lungs is neither of _relief_ — because your Captain will surely rise victorious — nor _anxiety_ — if this warrior Thorfinn is able to bring him down — as you glance between the two men of this impending duel.

It is closer to _fear_ — because, if either warrior falls, some corner of your heart shall burn for him.

☽

Never, have you witnessed a duel involving Thorkell that has lasted so long.

He has long ago shed the fur-lined coat from his torso. His forearms are carved with shallow cuts, courtesy of Thorfinn’s blades and agility. Thorkell is hardly ever injured in battles, especially those of one-on-one combat, but the spill of blood and the absolute struggle of the Captain alludes to the fact that either his age is catching up to him, or that Thorfinn is a formidable opponent _worthy_ of his effort.

The men jibe, cheering from the surrounding makeshift circular arena they’ve formed around the two.

“This guy's skilled!” exclaims an overzealous warrior of Thorkell's band at your side. “Captain can't seem to land a blow!”

Your eyes flit toward him for acknowledgment, then roll back to the duel where Thorfinn all but leaps and bounds off of Thorkell's stature, using his agility and speed to his advantage. You hum with this frigid gale that passes along, images from the plundered village outside of Baths filling in your thoughts. Back in November. In the village's old stables.

Of the short-lived altercation between Thorfinn and _yourself._

Of his _cold_ blade pressed against your throat. 

Of his _warmer_ breath on your face. 

“He's good,” you admit.

☽

As expected, although he is now a _luscus_ warrior, Captain Thorkell stays true to the promises he's made to Thorfinn at the duel’s start. Not only is Askeladd still standing, albeit wounded by the cowardice of his own men, but he grants Thorfinn a _horse_ to ride for the march on Gainsborough by Prince Canute’s orders.

To face and defeat his own father, King Sweyn, he had said.

Both forces have become unified, in the end. Perhaps, it is by the persuasive and logical approach of this new Canute for a better reign over the countries of Denmark and England, or maybe it is the promise of riches and luxury that comes with the act of placing Canute on the throne. Regardless of the reasonings, it seems that His Highness has finally found his voice and words, but at the price of Ragnar’s life.

And so, the _united front_ marches onward.

To Gainsborough, where the King awaits.

Your feet are numb, trudging through snow that is now _knee-deep_ the farther North East the unit marches. The fur of your mantle is weighed down with clumps of gathered flakes and ice, stiffening. Every breath is visible, and much to your own disappointment, you’ve slowed down in your step. Each one requires that you lift your leg higher to effectively plow your way through mounds of snow and slush. Oh, how much you miss the _feeling_ of your feet.

A horse snorts behind you, over the clamor of conversing men and rattling carts.

“...Stop.”

Wrapped in your cloak, you peer over your shoulder, then upward to the man mounted upon the steed. Thorfinn stares down at you from beneath the drawn hood of his capelet. His broken arm is still tucked within its makeshift sling, but he holds the reins in his other.

“You look like death,” he assesses with dryness to his tone.

Not a statement you are expecting to hear, though you’ve been called far worse, have seen far worse, and have heard far worse voices address you than his. However, what surprises you more than that, is when he spurs his steed ahead of your snail’s pace, and halts his horse in your direct path, demanding:

“Hurry up.”

Which equates to a crude variation of: _get on._

Steps faltering in the rhythm you had previously established, your eyes are wider as you gaze up at him.

Thorfinn stares back — though it is, admittedly, something closer to his notorious glare. Even then, you can tell that his patience is on thin ice when his lip curls up into a sneer. Warriors pass you both by, marching on and strong, and yet, it is you, that holds him back. He has every reason to take back the offer if you are so reluctant to accept it, and he teeters on the edge of simply leaving you behind.

“Tch...Don’t act modest,” he growls, breath billowing as he speaks. “We’re not even halfway there, and you’re already dragging your damned feet. You’ll slow us down or get left behind. So, which is it?”

Frankly, he wouldn’t care, either way, you’d suppose.

Sighing out, you step forward and quickly mount behind him. Once settled, hands flattening along the horse’s sides _instead_ of circling around Thorfinn’s waist, you force out a terse and clipped:

“Thank you.”

There is nothing he says in turn to that, given he doesn’t even acknowledge your gratitude.

He doesn’t need it, nor wants it, and you hardly wish to _offer_ it.

“You’re useless in snow,” he bites with an observed truth, instead. “How'd someone like you even make it _this_ far, huh?”

The truth _you_ share in turn is just as valid:

“I’ve never spent much time enduring this kind of weather. Winters were often downtime.”

Thorfinn glances at you from the corner of his brown eye, before he looks forward again.

“Hmph.”

As another stretch of silence comes forth, your eyes wander.

The stains that have settled and dried into the threads of his capelet and cloak are more distinct when you are so close. It reminds you of your own — those darker dollops of old blood, the faded marks of dirt and mud and other earthy traces. He smells like the woodlands. Of _wild_ things. Of dust, and dry leaves and pungent soil. Though you are sure there are more offensive odors to him that the Winter air eliminates. Like blood and sweat and musk, but right now, it is something you can ignore, as you wish to.

The ride is long, but so is your patience in comparison to Thorfinn’s. It wears thin the longer you ride with him, in unspoken words and heavy breaths that you can see as he expels them in front of you. Yes. You can tell that he is uncomfortable, but you can’t discern whether it is physical discomfort or something beyond that. Or, perhaps, on the surface level, it is the constant press of your scabbard against his back, especially when you catch him glancing at your heavy scabbard from the corner of his eye.

The leather of it is old and scraped at all sides. The hilt of your sword is in no better condition from the years of wear and tear and weather.

“The ruined blade will give out soon,” he tells you, suddenly. “It’s old. Weakened.”

Yes, indeed it is old.

“I didn’t think I’d keep it for all these years,” you say. “I’ve had it...since the night you handed it over to me. Until recently, I had almost forgotten where I'd acquired it. Almost forgot _you.”_

Another gust is strong enough to lift your cloaks in tandem.

“You should have,” Thorfinn denies in sharp words, but it is a truth in his eyes, of the separate things _he_ recalls. “I don’t remember giving you anything. The only thing I remember...all that I regret, was not slitting Askeladd’s throat with it.”

The more pressing question lingers on your tongue.

“Why would you want to kill your own leader?” It is a thought that is foreign to you. “Why do you fight with him? By his side, then?”

Again, there is silence, but this one is expected. Perhaps it is a question too invasive, and you hold no desire to press onwards if Thorfinn remains so tight-lipped about it. You understand, at the very least, that he has some sort of aching vendetta that has gone unanswered; one that requires closure, even if he won’t divulge the details to you.

But, there is closure that you seek, as well.

It is not one of bloodshed and a lust for vengeance.

The horse carries you both across the long march, and gentle snowfall begins with your voice.

“I fight...because I’m still searching for them,” you reveal, eyes skyward as flakes dance and flutter.

It is not _summer rain,_ but it brings life to those distant memories.

“For my parents,” you finish, tone wistful. “I’ve heard about the town of York. It’s a slave-trading center. Perhaps, they’ve been taken there…”

After all these years?

Thorfinn keeps his stare pointed ahead, but his voice cuts:

“No one’s there for you.”

“I know.”

_I know no one’s there._

And yet.

“Then,” he adds, slowly. “Where will you go?”

The air is brisk, but not as cold as the void within yourself that you seek to fill.

Chill rain.

“...Somewhere not here,” you decide, then and there.

**1013 A.D.  
** ❖  
 **N O R T H E A S T E N G L A N D  
** **G A I N S B O R O U G H**

There is a _warmth_ to Bjorn that contradicts all parts of him.

His wounds are draining him — stealing away the vigor, bloodlust, and robust nature he’d always upheld. You’ve hardly witnessed Bjorn at his peak; unleashed and indiscriminate toward those who received his wrath, but you’ve heard the stories. Plenty of them. Of the _berserker_ mushrooms that he’ll consume, allowing the true extremities of his strength to emerge, and so it surprises you to learn that he’d been vulnerable enough to sustain such wounds.

A stab to the gut.

By Atli, no less.

An unfortunate place to be punctured so deeply, though he holds well against it. Any common Viking would have succumbed to the severity within a day or two’s time, and yet, this monster-of-a-man still bears the strength and valor to move — despite how often you berate him to cease.

“You’ll irritate your wounds if you keep squirming around as you are,” you tell him, though it is far from the first time.

Closer to the tenth, but you are certainly _not_ counting.

The small hut he’d been afforded within Gainsborough is tight, firelit, and thrown in warm shades and shadows, but just enough to hold him over until the unit will march and sail on York the following day.

Bjorn harrumphs, drenched in cold sweat, snatching the booze you offer to him within an ornate horn, speaking over the rim:

“You really think this injury will keep me down?” 

If you only take what he says at face value, then no, you don’t believe that a mere stab wound will keep a man such as him from the battlegrounds for long. However, if you take the time to truly assess the effects of a blade having pierced through his intestines, then you doubt it will be long before the man finds himself collapsing.

“Perhaps,” you say, sticking to the middle grounds of it. “Regardless, I'll return with fresh poultice for your wounds in the morning.”

☽

The tavern hall is absolutely rumbustious on this particular night.

These men have been marching endlessly for months’ time, pushing through walls of snow and whirling storms. It is no surprise that they have taken to such an irrepressible state when they’ve been offered as much booze as their livers can soak in, and served ridiculous pounds of pork, barley, and lamb among an array of dishes fit for the weather. The smoke hole from the thatched roof above releases a constant string of smoke and the voices echo of jubilance across Gainsborough’s district.

“Drink to your heart’s content, our _skjaldmær!”_

Asgeir is already shoving a horn full of mead into your hands as soon as you step further within the tavern. It sloshes and spills, splattering atop some lout's boots, but he is inebriated enough to care naught of it. Mayhaps, even your sense of time has been skewed _without_ the influence of alcohol on your tongue. It is hard for you to recall when your towering Captain had scooped up a child and hoisted him onto his shoulders, but that splitting grin of the boy as Thorkell carries him across the tavern, downing drinks and spreading fire, is something imperishable.

Most entertaining is the sight of Willibald, the prince's devout priest, chugging down his _fiftieth_ tankard of booze within the hour. Demonstrating a nature of self-control, the prince himself, Canute, sits idly by the side of Askeladd, where the two observe and slowly sip at their own drinks from ornate horns. Standing at His Highness’ other side is another fellow that fits the descriptions of someone devoted to serving royalty. He bears physical similarities to the late Ragnar. He could be another retainer, perhaps? A consultant of sorts? Or perhaps neither, and something else beyond your limited knowledge of highborn hierarchy and their higher servants alike. 

Beyond the realm of their slaves...

Canute is not a king, yet, but regardless of that, he is the only royal blood that you’ve been favored enough to lay your eyes on. Throughout your years spent among these Danes, roaming Denmark’s and England's lands during the winter downtime between war, you’ve never set your eyes upon King Sweyn nor either of his heirs. Prince Harald is said to be a man befitting of a Dane ruler, and if that alone alludes to the possibility of him being Prince Canute’s opposite, then it would be an outright lie to say that you would prefer the elder son’s presence.

Already, you have spent far too many years surrounded by men of his stature.

But, this Prince Canute — of brilliant tresses and longer lashes of gold, breathes new life to these men, and to you. He doesn’t speak in the scratching tones of most, nor does he move with rigid force. It is not far-fetched to believe that Prince Canute carries himself with more degrees of grace than you.

Beside him, Askeladd stands, whispering hushed words to His Highness before he excuses himself. It is not your intention to watch so closely, drink forgotten in your palm where you hold it closer to your chest. Askeladd passes you by on his way out, blue eyes on yours, but it is only fleeting in the obscure manner that he often bears. Deft.

“Pardon me,” he says in quick passing; your gazes meet.

Fleeting and _gone._

Only when you return your curiosity forward again, do you discover how the Prince’s attention rolls over you. Though, of course. He’d been watching Askeladd depart, more likely than not, and you are merely in the path of his sight. He sits with a leg crossed over the other, fine boots laced to his knees, as the fabric of his tunic sleeve drapes along a thin wrist where he still hoists a drink in hand. Prince Canute lifts his free one, beckoning you over. A request from the prince himself, and how could you decline?

And so, you approach.

“Your Highness,” you address him.

What you have no inkling of patience for, however, is the condescending look that is written across his servant’s sour visage. He dares not to hide his suspicion, cupping a hand over his mouth as he leans down, whispering something in the Prince’s ear. Something of you, no doubt.

“Gunnar,” Canute starts with a half-sigh. “This woman is a warrior, just the same as the rest of these men. She’s one of Thorkell’s loyal followers.”

Promptly straightening himself, this Gunnar fellow regards you for a moment to collect his thoughts and forge a fitting mask.

“Ah...forgive me,” he states. “I had no knowledge of...a woman, marching among His Highness’ army.”

_None do._

And yet, those words are better left unsaid.

“Do not take offense to my questions,” the Prince speaks to you next, directly so. “But, I must ask first: eleven years ago, on the day of the massacre on Danelaw, were you there to witness...?”

“Witness what, Your Highness?”

“The death of my father’s sister...Gunhilde?”

“She was my family’s mistress.”

“I see...”

His silence gives way to sympathy you never asked for.

“I’d ask that you not assume the worst,” you're sure to realign his thoughts. “She was out in the bathhouse when the English troops attacked. Slaves, even those owned by the royal family, were not permitted to enter such establishments. Mistress Gunhilde—“ you stop yourself short from addressing her as such. “— _Lady_ Gunhilde’s death, and how she was murdered remains a mystery to me. I never even saw her corpse, given that my parents took the chaos of the attack as an opportunity for an escape.”

_...burn them all!_

_...don't spare the women or children!_

_...kill them all! Those are the King's orders!_

“Slave girl to runaway to warrior,” Canute pieces it together. “I wonder what business does such a woman have on the battlegrounds? Alongside Thorkell.”

The words are spoken from Prince Canute's lips, but the tone he uses; the level his voice reaches; this _regal_ lilt and tune of it. In truth, you hate it. Hate how it reverts you back to this docile woman, someone willing to obey.

Like some _thrall._

A slave.

And, you are that, no longer.

“What would you assume, Your Highness?” you volley.

Canute allows himself a moment to study you further, blue eyes wandering across your countenance beneath lighter lashes.

“It’s often rare that a woman decides to take on the path of a warrior by her own volition,” he begins. “Realistically speaking, you may be the only shield-maiden that many would cross in their entire lives. I would assume that aspects of your life have forced you to take on the title of a lady warrior, but what kind of circumstances, I’ve yet to learn.”

As if a hammer has found its anvil, slamming upon it without fault nor hesitance.

Precision of the strike.

“Then, you would be correct,” you admit. “Though, only partially.”

“Would it be too demanding of me to ask for details?”

For the Prince of Denmark? Hardly.

“As you know, I come from a line of slaves; twenty generations worth, at least,” you reveal. “My mother often saw it fit to remind me that we were merely paying the price for the heinous crimes our ancestors had committed over five hundred years ago.”

“Crimes?” Canute parrots, blond brow raising underneath neatly trimmed fringe.

“Yes, Your Highness,” you breathe. “The exact origin of my ancestors are still unclear — whether they sailed across seas from faraway lands or not — but, no matter where they hailed from, they wreaked havoc and brought death to whichever society they were set upon. It is said that they evoked fear in all men.”

"Your ancestors were feared people?” The Prince nearly burns you with eyes of periwinkle.

“Their downfall arose when their greed and bloodlust had led them upon a task and _life_ that was worth riches beyond their comprehension,” you begin, staring down into the amber liquid of your drink. “It was spread that our ancestors were responsible for the death of a Roman military hero, _Artorius,_ within the region of Dalmatia where he died. After they were detained, my ancestors and our entire bloodline was _condemned_ to enslavement under the Roman Empire as punishment. For generations, those that bore the blood of the murderers were humiliated and scorned, no matter how far our bloodline managed to emigrate throughout Britannia and beyond, and even after the Roman Empire's collapse to the Saxons. And yet, still...my father was merely a slave that was imported from elsewhere. He met my mother, a descendant of the disgraced, but he loved her anyway, and they bore a child together — me. And so, I bear the blood of _criminals.”_

“Yet, until these recent years, your only true crime was being _born_ with the blood of sinners,” Canute realizes.

“It would seem so,” you tell him.

_Expelled from paradise..._

☽

By the time you muster the will to slip away from the longhouse and its stifled air, Askeladd has long since returned to his seat alongside Prince Canute.

He had been absent from the scene for quite a while, gathering his own breath and thoughts, no doubt.

Therefore, the necessity of _your_ escape from the noise of the tavern is a greater one than the celebration of a march deemed successful. Of roaring over the rise of a new king on the dawning horizon — if all goes according to what has been orchestrated. Askeladd is a clever man, with such copious amounts of schemes hidden up his tunic sleeve _and_ tucked beneath his armor, that it is no surprise how he’s found himself titled as one of Prince Canute’s vassals. He’s secured a position that countless men will kill for; there is no doubt that some will _try._

And yet, it is not only Askeladd that bears the weight of his title to the royal one. Thorkell is an asset to the prince, just as much as Askeladd, though for reasons that lean more toward physical protection and the power of an army under his wing. As for Thorfinn, he is now a shield for the Prince, meant to shadow him along his ascendance to the throne; to raise a shield high as Canute places the crown atop his head. When the time and moment comes.

 _If_ the time and moment comes.

The winds around you pick up a flurry of snow, rippling through your cloak, and sends shivers through your fur mantle as it staves the bite of cold from the skin. It is _now_ that you regret not filling your liver with your share of booze, if anything to fight away the frigid air that kisses your skin and dusts your attire and hair in speckled flakes. Some liquid warmth to keep you moving. To fill your veins with courage as well, because the sight of a rather distinct woolen capelet; blond hair freed from its hood, and the glinting dagger clutched within a hand encourages you to return to the warmth of the crowded longhouse from whence you came, and yet…

And yet, you _won’t._

“Thorfinn?”

He stands at the snowy bank of Gainsborough’s river channel, where the waters are ominously dark when the moon does not cast light upon it. He peers your way, wordless, before resuming with his previous task. The point of his dagger catches light again as the sound of tearing fabric cuts where his right arm is wrapped.

Ah. Is his makeshift splint and wrappings coming undone?

Brushing excess snow from your mantle, you clutch the garment and part the snow in your path toward him.

“Are the wrappings loose?” you pose, stopping at his side. “Those splints should last you for weeks if you don’t manage to splinter them. You should be letting your arm rest, not placing a constant strain on—”

“I never asked for your advice,” Thorfinn refutes. “So be quiet.”

Teeth clacking as your mouth closes, from both the nipping cold _and_ his retort, you blink at the awkward attempt he makes at tightening the wrappings with one hand. The fabric slips and the knots he’d made all unravel, much to his chagrin.

“It’s no use,” you murmur to him. “You’ll have to undo the entire splint and rewrap your arm if you want it to be tight enough.”

“I’ve got it,” he all but growls, stubborn as the wrappings unravel — again, again, and _again._ “Damn it…”

Your hands emerge from your cloak, palms upward.

“Here,” you offer. “Give me your arm.”

His hair is skew-whiffed, as it often _always_ is when he catches your eyes. The wrappings of his splint hang, tangled, but for Thorfinn to extend his arm out for you to handle is an act that lets you know he’s aware enough to know when his skills are inadequate. However, you doubt that the notion stands true when it comes to his physical capabilities, if the mere fact that he challenged Captain Thorkell to a duel, of all warriors, is anything to consider.

Still — he awaits your acceptance, where he holds out the tangled mess of wrappings that hangs from his aching arm.

Searching his face for any signs of him wanting to reject, your hands are careful as you gather his appendage within them. You unravel the fabric, eyes set on the task, but the heat of Thorfinn’s glare that burns into your skull cannot go unnoticed.

This fire within his soul. Is it of the warrior blood he carries so heavily?

A mother, nobility among the Jomsvikings, daughter of Jarl Sigvaldi himself. A revered father who commanded entire fleets of Vikings, deemed the strongest warrior of all. _The Troll._ As those revelations come forth in your mind, it is certainly not a foreign concept to observe the way Thorfinn carries himself, though one would have to add the scorn of a man to amplify those traits. Even so, the stories you’ve heard of his father, of Thors, told by word of mouth from Thorkell himself, seem as if they could’ve been snatched from legends of old.

Things that are only tales, and yet, this man’s father had walked this earth and her lands alongside your Captain.

There is _truth_ to every legend.

Of Luna. Máni. Artorius. Avalon.

“Is what my Captain said of you true?” your voice finds itself again. “Are you truly from Iceland?”

Thorfinn, before you, only breathes in crisp air.

Pulling words from this man is like drawing the sturdy string of an ancient bow that has been dormant for millennia. Tough, daunting, requiring patience with steady breath and hands, but your fingers are slipping—

“You don’t believe what your leader says?” Thorfinn’s breath is frost.

The look you deliver him is stern, and surprisingly, all Thorfinn manages is a huff.

“...It’s true,” he concedes.

“Then, is it…” you pause, fingers working with his arm’s wrappings. “Is it nice there?”

Nicer than where you are, now?

Nicer than where you’ve been? Though, Thorfinn cannot begin to guess the names of all the lands you’ve crossed throughout the long years. Of invasions on English soil and coasts; voyages across the rapid and calmest waters of Europe's seas; downtime spent within Denmark’s territory. A list of endless settings and experiences that have settled under your time-weary boots.

Thorfinn goes quiet as you finally begin retying his sling, tightening the wrappings to a proper hold against his broken limb.

“Perhaps, I could go there — to Iceland — once I’m reunited with them,” you carry on.

Although you don’t outrightly specify who the term “them” is referring to, Thorfinn knows well enough.

Those foolish hopes and dreams you hold.

Still _following the gap,_ is what you're doing.

Thorfinn is ponderous for a moment, muttering:

“There’s a lot of _snow_ there.” Brown eyes flit over yours when you spare a moment to cast an upward gaze for him, and he continues, “From what I've seen during the march from Mercia, I doubt you’d last a day.”

He doesn't mean to garner the reaction that he does.

It's a smile that wanders to your lips, dried within these harsher winter gales, but it’s small. Thin. Hardly, is Thorfinn expecting the sound of subsequent _laughter_ — breathy and real, to spill. It clashes, softly, with the wintry night and overwhelms it. Thorfinn watches nonetheless, as a low, puzzled hum resonates from the back of his throat.

Soon, you catch your cold breath.

“I’ve lasted far longer than a day out here,” you quip. “Who’s to say I won’t last in Iceland?”

Thorfinn turns his head, frowning out toward placid waters of the river channel. Of the hulls belonging to idle longships that groan and sway with lighter currents. But Gods, this man frowns so much that he will surely develop lines of age and stress along his countenance throughout the rest of his twenties.

You blink at him, only to request:

“Hold your arm up higher.”

One to despise being given orders, Thorfinn refuses.

“Do you want your arm to heal, or not?” you admonish. “Your pride will do little for you but get you killed. You’re ridiculous, you know that? Can’t imagine you had many friends.”

At that, Thorfinn stares at you for a moment, and for the slightest second, it seems as if you’ve gotten under his skin — as thick and rough as it is — enough to draw out something other than a sneer. Rather, it is something closer to offense, but if you were to blink, you’d miss it entirely.

“Faxi...” his voice is lower, as if he’s speaking from somewhere else.

“Hm?”

The name of a friend? From Iceland. Lost, though, he still recalls him.

“There were many of us...children.” It’s a rare occurrence for Thorfinn’s glare to soften around the edges as he speaks.“It didn’t matter how much the snow piled, we’d always rush out to play together...on days when I wasn’t tending to the sheep or the cows.”

The last knot is tied around his splint, wrappings carefully wound around his forearm, and you finish tying his sling to gently hoist and support his arm. In truth, as the wind howls and thin branches of bare trees tremble, you have every right to take your leave; to return to the warmth of the tavern where the festivities still live on. The chance for you to depart and leave Thorfinn to his constant brooding is a viable option, but your thoughts and intentions are not so satisfied. Remaining there, steadfast, your eyes are misty, staring down at your wrists, remembering a darker time when the itch and scratch of rope were bound around them, if not the heavier iron of rusted chains and shackles.

Your voice is faded to a quiet hush:

“Are there slaves in Iceland?”

Thorfinn looks to you, and yet, for what feels like the first time, you do _not_ return it. No, your stare is wistful, glazed over with something one cannot easily place a name upon. You run a thumb along your inner wrist, over the webbing veins, yet Thorfinn's voice holds a placatory tone:

“Owning slaves...was...something my family and village refused to do. It didn't matter how much my sister cried to make it happen.”

Oh?

“Sister?” you mutter. 

A shame that it has taken you so long to contemplate over the full realization that Thorfinn does indeed have a family that may or may not extend beyond his parents. It is only natural that your thoughts wander with this. Of the image that fills your mind; the idea of a lady bearing his similarities. Perhaps a more feminine embodiment? Brown eyes; honey-brown? Thick lashes. The same slope of the nose. Shapely brows, too. Golden hair like his, maybe longer? Not as tragically tangled and unkempt. 

Regardless, Thorfinn doesn't bother to elaborate. He's answered enough as it is, and a part of you feels fortunate enough to receive even this much from him.

What right do you have to prod further? What responsibility? What binding obligation?

None.

And that, yes, _that_ fills you with a feeling of odd freedom, chest weightless as you peer upward for Gainsborough’s night sky; for the dusted stars, for the nebulae, for the moon that quells you so.

“And, the moon,” you utter as an afterthought. “Is it beautiful in Iceland? Every night?”

Whilst your gaze points upward, skating over the stretched light of Polaris, Thorfinn’s stare remains downcast, where his boots sink into crumbling snow.

“Right now...” His voice wants to crack on the coming words, to splinter and lay his thoughts of home to rest as they've been for many, many winters; but finally, Thorfinn allows his eyes to lift skyward, redolent of someone longing for moments of a waned past. “It should be shining alongside the _Northern Lights.”_

☽


	3. Home & Heart

**— III —** **  
****H O M E & H E A R T**

_Ocean waves dampen the sand between your toes, frothing where it stretches to kiss the farthest points of the shore — like star-crossed lovers. Brine coats the air, caresses your nose, and burns your eyes in their rounded wonder. Warmth settles beneath your feet, where the granules roll and shift with your weight. It’s the whisper of rolling waves, lapping to and fro that hums, and you cannot tear your gaze elsewhere. There is nothing else that entrances you so. Nothing else that binds you, mind and body and soul, as the sea does…_

_“Is someone staring back at you from somewhere beyond those waves, my moon?”_

_Ah. Father’s voice is different from Mother’s. Like the crackle and calm of a hearth. A fire to warm your bones; to light the long, darkened path; to stave off danger that fears the burn of it. Protection._

_But, the waves are still there, wrapping along your toes._

_“From somewhere, papa…” you chime. “But, not here.”_

_“Somewhere not here, huh,” he crouches next to you._

_And yet, elsewhere, along Iceland's frosted coast, a boy lowers his bucket of raw milk to the ground, and…_

_...and, he stares — across the offing of a beckoning sea._

**1014 A.D.** **  
****J A N U A R Y** **  
****❖** **  
****N O R T H E A S T E N G L A N D** **  
****G A I N S B O R O U G H**

The waves return.

In a dream.

Your toes are still digging into sand, but you are no longer at the gentle age of seven. Your father is not crouched at your side, inquiring about your daydreams and the reasons behind your distant stare that’s centered on the expanse of the ocean before you. The waves still froth as they kiss the shore, swirling at your feet in bubbling foam. The wind is heavy with brine, but you take in lungfuls of it; tasting the salt of the air; feeling the caress of it through your lashes and rippling your attire — which is an old tunic. It is nothing woven from riches or finery, but rather the threads of a simple garment often meant for slaves.

But...you are no slave.

You are free.

No iron chains shackle you, no worn ropes scratch and eat away at your wrists. Your skin is not coated in a layer of dirt and sweat, and your hair smells of herbal, floral things. Of delicate things. Soft. Yes, this is freedom. This is what your parents have always dreamed of giving you — the reason they’d even taken the wild chance to escape from enslavement.

You close your eyes, embracing the kiss of an ocean breeze, and—

The waves are rushing in, now.

Faster, stretching farther, and it captures your ankles in a rip current. The waters tug at your feet, and the waves are rapid as the tide turns violent. Darker waters. Colder. The peace inside of you vanishes, replaced with utter fear. Gods, these waves pull you in, waters rising higher and higher as if the beginnings of a towering wave capable of swallowing the shore entirely is inbound — but, no..this is something far worse.

The waves drag you out to the ocean’s depths, no matter how much you thrash against those tides. It’s too strong, too much, too overwhelming.

“Father! Mother!” you find yourself calling out.

They are nowhere to be found.

There is no one there.

No one but you and the undertow that pulls you beneath the surface.

You want to scream, even underwater, although the bitter salt of the sea fills your mouth and chokes you. The ocean tugs you down, down, down toward its abyss and ocean bed. And yet, it pours into you; the water, the pressure, the force. It’s too much. It is wrong and unfair and cruel, and you thrust out your hands, reaching toward the rippling surface that you will never reach, until—

The hand of another plunges in for you from the surface.

Yes, yes!

A palm wraps firmly along your upper arm and wrenches against the tide that wishes to pull you deeper. And yet, this savior is stronger than that of the ocean’s will. Their hold along your arm is unshakeable, something of power as they pull you from the ocean’s wrath.

Up, up, up! To the air above...you need to breathe!

As you resurface, breaking out through the sea's crystalline bed, you _gasp..!_

And, that is how you wake to the real world — gasping for air, eyes wide and wet with tears. No longer, are you submerged within a treacherous sea, but rather pressed against the rough bark of a tree’s trunk. Dry. On land. Outside. Layers of thick, woolen blankets are pooled around your lap and askew along your shoulders. There is snow surrounding you, soaking your boots and the blankets you were once burrowed within for the night.

You’re still within the town of Gainsborough, it seems.

Still short of breath, you swallow, throat painfully dry.

There is the weight and pressure of a hand wrapped firmly around your arm.

Ah, the same hand.

“Be quiet...” comes a low complaint.

Or it is, perhaps, an order, though the connotations woven within it slip your rattled mind.

The faded, wispy sight of vapor from Thorfinn’s breath catches your eye long before the distracting tangle of blond hair and hard brown eyes fill your vision. Expelling a longer breath, you lift shaken fingers to smack his hand from your shoulder, seething:

“Don't you _ever_ touch me...”

Chest rising and falling with such an unsteady rhythm to it, there is no chance for you to voice further concerns before Thorfinn is already retaliating.

“Are you stupid? Next time, I'll just let you suffocate in your sleep then,” he says, but the innate touch of apathy within his tone, despite your personal plight and panic, is not an odd note.

Suffocating? There was saltwater in your lungs, burning your nose, clogging your ears, stinging your eyes, killing you—

“I…” you catch your breath — the chill of it filling your lungs before you close your eyes to simply breathe. “I was... _drowning.”_

Thorfinn stares at you, cocks a brow slightly higher than the other.

“Hn..?”

Between the silence that wedges its way in, the nearby sound of men preparing the longships resounds, where they stock the ships for another impending sail. Thorfinn sighs, and pushes himself to stand, broken arm still hoisted within its sling, tucked beneath his cloak.

“We’re headed for York. Get up if you don't want to be left behind,” he suggests, then heads off toward the river bank where the longships are berthed.

**1014 A.D.** **  
****F E B R U A R Y** **  
****❖** **  
****N O R T H U M B R I A R E G I O N** **  
****Y O R K**

Word spreads fast.

 _Incredibly_ fast.

Especially so, with news of the banquet for the Imperial Council set to be held within York's Hall on the following day.

Not once do you recall asking for notoriety among the lands, nor do you wish for your personal matters to be discussed among men and women who are merely strangers, but there is little you can do once your title and stories have settled on their tongues. How they speak of you in hushed tones when you pass them by along the sodden streets of the town of York. Although this infamy is something you never thought to establish amongst both the army of Denmark and its common population that has reached into England, it is perhaps something you should have been expecting once you came of age to truly gather the weight of Thorkell’s name — and, to have yours so closely correlated with it.

Yes, there is constant word of the _skjaldmær,_ wandering the waters and coasts. A woman warrior, worthy of a man’s sword and shield in the midst of battle, worthy of a man’s death by your hands. The Mortal Valkyrie among living men — the _skjaldmær_ that has sent countless warriors from this earthly ground by way of your sword’s edge. A quicker route to Valhalla, and one of a noble death by your blade, no less.

Though, you are not the only warrior to have garnered reputable attention.

Thorfinn’s name plays on the lips of many. Retellings of the ever valiant _Thorfinn Karlsefni,_ the fearless warrior who rose victorious against Thorkell the Tall in a proper duel, wielding only two blades and raw strength. But, of course, one of His Highness’ vassals should hold such power and skill within himself. Only men worthy of the recognition can earn a position so close to Denmark’s royalty.

Closer than even _Willibald._

The priest himself sits at one of the tables on the far end of the hall — now privately occupied by Thorkell, Asgeir, and yourself as all of you await Canute and Askeladd — but fate would have it that as soon as your stare roams his way, Willibald deems it fair to start a conversation with vague questioning, fitting of his mannerisms:

“How is he?”

“Who?” you seek for clarification, brow arched from your seat, where the smell of stew dances around your nostrils.

Willibald blinks.

“The mushroom warrior.”

_Bjorn._

Now, you understand.

“Hm...from the looks of what I've seen, his wounds will take months to heal,” you state, assessing the past sight and severity of where blades had once plunged through his flesh. “I doubt the possibility of him fighting in any battle and surviving until then.”

The bandages were soaked the last time you dressed and treated his wounds; stained red.

“Heal, you say?” Willibald voices from where he's perched at his far table.

Curious, you catch his gaze across the hall room.

Even with the odd look you send his way, Willibald blinks, still clutching onto the pin cask of booze against the dark fabric of his tunic, and asks:

“Do you mean to heal his wounds or perhaps more than that?”

“More...?” you repeat.

“Do you know what it means to heal?"

“I know of poultice, of a good night's rest for fatigue, of broth for fevers, dressing wounds, and herbal medicines,” you reason. “Though, you speak as if there is more to it than that.”

The priest nods, once.

“There is,” he says.

Then, if so...

“Do you care to speak on it, then?” you try to seek for elaboration. “This...healing.”

“Have you started to heal?”

You? Heal? There are no wounds worth fretting over, nothing severe enough to draw considerable blood from any of your scars — old nor new.

“Does it seem as if I require healing?” your voice nearly catches and falters on the question.

As if you are, truthfully, afraid of the answer you might receive.

Despite your discrepancies, Willibald is inclined to share only a truth you need to hear:

“...Yes.”

“How so?” you carry on.

Rough, frost-kissed fingers still wrap around the wooden cask, wheat hair is caught in the private alehouse's half-tones.

“You haven't healed wounds that are years old, yet,” he tells you. “Haven't realized that not all are physical.”

_Is that so…?_

Tendrils of steam rise and fade from the bowl of stew that you’ve been served long, long minutes ago. An appetite is nonexistent and the thoughts that crowd your mind all but whet your tongue. You swirl the wooden spoon within it; a slow, drawn motion that tells of a distant mind and heart.

“Hey, hey, hey…” Thorkell groans, sitting across from you at the table you occupy, along with Asgeir. “What was the point of ordering stew if you aren’t going to eat it? Ah! What a waste.”

The spoon in your hand halts.

The color of your eyes flicker to meet Thorkell’s, muted within the firelight.

“...Forgive me, Captain,” you say, nudging the stew across the tabletop. “My mind is occupied, I’m afraid.”

At Thorkell’s side, Asgeir takes a sip from his horn and sighs.

“We know,” he prods. “I don’t think you realize how often your expressions tell of what you’re thinking.”

“That look in your eyes,” Thorkell speaks in lower tones, but the gravel of his voice is all-knowing. “You think you’ll find them here? In York? Hmm...you’ve had that look in your eyes ever since our march from Mercia, and you thought we wouldn’t notice, our _skjaldmær?”_

Ah. Sometimes it escapes you. The fact that you’ve spent well over eleven years alongside these men, and in no way has it been an easy life or journey. But, when it comes to your emotions and the sides of you that reach beyond the physical limitations, there is no one that can pick you apart as the two men before you.

One hazel eye stares down at the way your fingers net together, how your gaze is awfully distant.

“Once the Prince and Askeladd arrive from the ships, you’ll have the time to go search for them,” Thorkell promises you just as the creaking door of the longhouse is pried open from the outside.

It is His Highness the prince and Askeladd. Finally.

“Sorry for the delay,” Askeladd starts, lifting a flippant hand. “The streets have fallen into unrest after His Highness’ life has been targeted.”

An absolute mastermind at his craft — of deception and politics — Askeladd’s “assassination” attempt on His Highness, Prince Canute proves to be a plausible scheme, holding its weight. The town of York is teeming with rumors of King Sweyn’s intentions, spreading word of his heinous greed for power. Of perhaps, attempting to murder his own blood; his own son. Of his morals and humanity as both a father and King to the populace under his rule.

Prince Canute, stepping further into the warmed and private space, begins loosening the cloak from around his frame, and removes the tied kerchief from his head. Those tresses of a brilliant luster have been pulled into a neat ponytail, though he is quick to undo that as well.

“Where’s Thorfinn?” His Highness presses.

A question that even _you_ are curious to know the answer to.

Askeladd shucks the residue of snow and muck from his boots.

“Ah, Thorfinn’s out handling the assassin who tried his hand at your death, Your Highness,” he explains. “He should be done with him shortly — but actually...he should be back by now.”

“Ah-hah!” Thorkell blurts, extending out his three-fingered hand in your direction. “Our _skjaldmær_ is available to go in search of him. She’s done it before.”

Back along the outskirts of Baths, yes.

Still — you peer at the men within the room, at the expectation that nearly overwhelms you.

“Fine,” you concede, standing as you clutch onto your cloak to don it. “Where was he last seen?”

Askeladd is the one to catch your gaze.

“By the river banks,” he says, voice surprisingly eased. “Oh, and before I forget...”

Your boots pause by the alehouse doorway, mid-step, as your stare returns.

“Good work with finding and convincing the slave woman to follow through,” Askeladd praises, but with the narrowed gaze that accompanies his gratitude, it's hard for you to accept, even as he finishes with a curt report, “She served her role as the prince's double to the very _end.”_

☽

You can recognize the scratch and gravel of Thorfinn’s voice from the pier of York. To follow the sound of it is your immediate course of action, but it is the voice of another — older, trembling on the edges of words, and desperate:

“I’m going to stay in this town until you change your mind!”

And, further begging:

“Thorfinn! Let’s go home!”

It is the call of someone that cares. You know that much. Can hear it in his voice, and it moves you, halts you where you stand upon the creaking wooden docks, a ways away from the distant sight of Thorfinn walking away from this man that begs for him. The elder of the two is of a smaller to average stature; middle-aged.

Both of their backs are turned to you, with Thorfinn receding farther off as he departs, but this man is planted so firmly in his place that you believe in his declaration. He will stay, that is certain, even to you. To an outsider looking in, and through such fogged glass, no less. It is how strong this man’s resolve is toward getting through to someone as unreachable as Thorfinn.

Your breath is caught. Standing. Staring.

Until you swallow and bury your inhibitions to begin a slow approach toward the man from his rear, however, you are not foolish enough to sneak up to him without announcing your presence, for his sake more than yours:

“You know that warrior, old man?” comes your voice.

The man turns, slowly, much to your surprise. Of composure and poise. He isn’t nearly as startled by your sudden interjection as you had initially pinned him to be. Eyes the shade of a lighter brown than that of Thorfinn’s when he rests his gaze upon you.

“I do,” he answers. “Who are you?”

As his question hangs high in the air, he takes a moment to soak in your appearance: The thin fur mantle, the hilt of your scabbard peeking out from beneath your cloak at your waist, the look in your eye, the mere aura you carry and confront him with.

His eyes widen, just a bit.

An airborne _hawk_ caws from above, filling this stifling silence when the easy current of the river cannot.

“You’re one of them?” he concludes with impressive perception. “But...a woman. You’ve been traveling with him? With Thorfinn?”

All you spare for him is a nod of your head, though your next inquiry seems to steal the last of his winded breath when you ask:

“Will you take him back to Iceland?”

Where the snow piles around this time of the year.

Where the Northern Lights dance in shifting colors.

Where the rime layers the rocky facades of steep cliffsides.

Where all the images that Thorfinn has painted in your mind live and thrive — where they are _real._

“Even if it is my last voyage; I will,” he declares.

“Can you promise that?”

“To you?” His question is thick with intrigue.

Regardless, you peer out at the distant speck of Thorfinn’s receding figure, past the man’s shoulder.

“I would like that, if you did,” you clarify.

It is the way this man’s gaze drops downward, fists curling at his sides as his thoughts seem to fill with heavier memories, but his voice holds true to that notion:

“You won’t be the only one I’m holding that promise to.”

At that, you stare at him.

The frigid air is easier to ignore when the older man seems to regather himself:

“You must know by now that he lost his father, years ago,” he speaks of Thorfinn’s past as if it hurts him just as much.

“Thors…” you force the name to leave your throat.

As if you are uttering the name of a legend.

_The Troll of Jom._

Sadly, his name and skill are the extent of your knowledge on the matter of his life. You know that Thors was once the greatest warrior of the Jomsvikings — a Commander. Aside from the fact that he has died years ago, you have no knowledge of the details regarding his death. Even Captain Thorkell knows naught of that, and Thorfinn has never spoken on it, either.

“His father was...killed right in front of him,” the man summons more details. “The poor boy. He was only a child...and... _God,_ I was there.”

There? At that moment?

“You say he was killed?” you prod. “By whom? I thought it was known across all armies that Thors was the strongest warrior?”

He regards you for a moment, allows the silence to give him time to sort his thoughts.

“Thors gave his life away...protecting the people of his village,” he says. “And, ever since, Thorfinn has been following after his father’s murderer, seeking revenge. He said he was called Askeladd.”

You adjust your footing when you feel unstable.

“I...I never knew the details behind his hatred,” you say.

This man seems distant, mind elsewhere; lost in memories and images of a past long destroyed.

“The look in his eyes…” This man's voice seems to waver. “He is not the same. I held him in my own arms when he was only an infant. I watched Thorfinn grow for those few years...I never would’ve thought to believe that he would be so…”

He shakes his head, concluding:

“...So lost.”

You take a deep breath and brush past him, walking in the direction that Thorfinn had ventured — following him before he gets too far away.

“Stay true to your promises, old man,” you ask of him over the fur mantle upon your shoulders.

“H-hey,” the man calls to you as a hand reaches out. “I’m Leif Erikson. That’s my name.”

 _Leif._ The name carves itself in your memory. _Leif Erikson._

“B-but who are you?” he exclaims at your back. “Your name? What is it?”

There is no response from you as you press onward, steps echoing across the pier’s wooden boards as you go.

“W-wait a moment!” Leif shouts for you, though he is wise enough not to chase.

If Thorfinn is considered lost, then so are you. Adrift amid the spread of a sea, and it would not be long before either of you drowned.

Those thoughts make their mark within as you finally approach Thorfinn after tailing him for short minutes. Even as you fall into step a few paces behind him, your mind is far from silenced. There are echoes of Leif's words resounding, claims of Thorfinn's innocence years ago. That tragic and drastic shift of him. In fact, it feels as if it is a morbid curiosity for you to ponder the possibilities of the man he could've been, had his father's life not been stolen. Leif spoke of Thorfinn as if he were once a boy that held remarkable light. A craving for life, rather than a constant bloodlust to take the lives of others.

“Thorfinn,” you speak his name, striding closer to his side, maneuvering through York’s sodden path. “How many people have you killed?”

Perhaps, it is a question far too abrupt for his likings, or one that stirs feelings he wishes to suppress.

His silence proves that.

“You’re just as ashamed of it as I am, then,” you press. “Admit it.”

Thorfinn cuts you a look from the corner of his eye, stating:

“I have my reasons for what I do. Can you say the same? I doubt it...”

Uncouth in his approach and awfully brash.

It sickens you.

Visibly perturbed, you are speechless.

“Hmph...just as I thought,” Thorfinn bites. “You don’t even know what you fight and kill for. There’s nothing else that pisses me off more than people like you.”

A once burnt-out fire rekindles itself anew with your ire.

“Just…stop.” Your chest burns, beyond your heart and lungs. “You know nothing about my motives, or how I even ended up here.”

Halting his pace across York's path, Thorfinn glares.

He starts, roughly, “...Hey—”

“You think I _chose_ this life?” The flame in your voice flares and spits.

Thorfinn is silent at that, though his stare is _bold_ enough to remain steadfast.

 _He_ is bold enough.

“I had no choice — but, you did, Thorfinn…” you speak, carefully so. _“Son of Thors.”_

More troubled by the sound of his father's name on your tongue and the terse tone behind it, Thorfinn’s brown eyes widen, body and stance stiffening.

“Why does what I choose to do with my life matter to you?”

Those words hang suspended in the air, and it crackles. Like lightning, like shattering glass.

“Why does it matter?” you echo back in sharper tones, to whirl in on him.

You spin in so closely that you can feel his breath on your cupid’s bow, can catch that wild scent of him on the edge of your nose as you seethe, but you both are stubborn, and neither flinch away.

“You chose to chase after vengeance...you _choose_ to keep fighting.” The palms of your hands, as calloused as they are, shove him away enough for you to breathe. “You piss me off, too... Do you know that? Huh? Gods, you have a _home,_ Thorfinn. And, you won’t bother to go back? Your blood is nobility. You have people who are waiting for you to return. There is a sailor from your homeland that is waiting for you, just along this damned pier. You are not alone. Not alone, as I am,” your voice wanes. “There is no one there for me, and you say that I have no reason to fight. And, yes, it’s true. I don’t, but I’m _searching_ for it.”

The slow tears spill from your eyes, along the curve of your cheek, though it dries quickly with bitter winds, and Thorfinn heaves a breath.

In through the mouth, and out of his nose; drawn out and centered.

When was the last time he’d seen someone cry in front of him? The English woman, back in East Anglia? There is no burning cottage, no scrambling residents of the village, no bodies at his feet, no blood painted alongside his face and hair, and there are no distant war drums to mark a murderous raid; but, there is _you._

And yet, Thorfinn is still stunned, just as he was those years ago.

Even he must realize that you only fight to survive. That you have nowhere else to go—

“Far, far west, across the sea...” It is a curiously odd tone that Thorfinn uses, his words pouring by their own will. “There’s a land that’s warm, and fertile, with rolling plains of grass as far as the eye can see. A place with no slavery. No wars…Dream of that, instead.”

The stare you point his way is one worth noting.

Breathing, you are still as stone, though it is the stirred feeling within you, as if there is new direction for you to consider, that keeps you rooted there.

_Far, far west._ _  
__Across the sea._

☽

A heavy heart is not easy to carry, and it poses as more of a hindrance on your search for them.

For a lost mother and father. A lost family. Torn apart.

However, the only place that poses as some beacon of hope is the number of slaves that suffer upon York's soil. But, the sight of these people, bound by thick ropes at the necks and wrists, bring forth emotions you once thought you’d suppressed. Beneath the bodies of war, the strength, the weight of your sword. And yet, now? Now you know better than to believe that all the “glory” on the battlefield can ever erase the deeply rooted pains of your past.

It isn’t until you pull the strings to speak with the slaves themselves, do you manage to dig up relevant information. The older slaves, in particular, have been in York for many many years, though their time wears thinner the longer they go without being sold off to the highest bidder — or any bidder, for that matter. Eleven years is a long time, and although your hopes of truly locating your parents has begun to wither, it is the words of those slaves that rekindle the flame of your hope in finding them.

In the recollection and words of an older male slave, it is to be believed that your mother no longer walks the earth. This man speaks on the old night of when your father was set to be sold off, but in the distraught state of mind your mother had been in — perhaps, of not only being separated from you back within the vicinity of England’s Humber River — but also of losing your father, she had refused to be apart from him.

“That woman…” the slave man recalls in hushed tones, mindful enough to not wake the slumbering slaves that pile within the shack. “I never would have suspected her to be so hotblooded. For her to put up an outright fight against the slave traders of this town. None of us ever took her for the type to do what she did. She resisted. She tried to fight, even in her restraints. But discovering that you are her daughter — a woman warrior — proves that your bloodline is one of _fortitude.”_

Whether it is a compliment, or not, does little to stave the burn in your chest. Of perpetual guilt.

A bloodline of criminals. _Fighters,_ yes — but, far from noble warriors.

Your eyes shift around, cautious and sharp, gliding over the splitting and rotted timber walls of the slave shack.

“What happened to my mother, then?”

The slave holds your gaze.

“She was killed. Right in the muddy street of York.” He takes notice of the calm reaction you bear, and surmises, “I take it this is the news you were expecting?”

Eleven years of assuming the worst, priming your mind and heart for the news you are now faced with, and it still cuts deep — through your bones of steel, forged from war and constant death, though not that of your own, somehow. The welling tear that gathers at the edge of your eye is hot as it spills, dampening your cheek, before rolling into the corner of your lip where the salt of it seeps through.

“And, my father?”

“Well, your father…” the older male searches for the details, and the ropes tied at his thin wrists strain. “Your father was still sold off to Ketil’s farm someplace in Denmark, shortly after. Jutland, I believe.”

**1014 A.D.** **  
****F E B R U A R Y** **  
****❖** **  
****N O R T H U M B R I A R E G I O N** **  
****Y O R K**

Ketil’s farm.

It is a name and place you won’t soon forget.

By the time you return from the slave camp of York’s traders, the discussion that was once being held within the longhouse between Prince Canute and his most trusted vassals — to include Askeladd, Thorkell, and Gunnar — has long since concluded. Gunnar, bearing a facade that no man with a sane mind could blindly trust, has excused himself from the discussion long ago, claiming to have "errands" to run, though a man that is not an outright fool would suspect otherwise.

Paying proper heed to those suspicions, Askeladd has both warned His Highness Canute of Gunnar’s fickle loyalty and he has sent Thorfinn out to follow Gunnar’s tracks through the night. However, all of that has taken place well over an hour or two ago, though you walk into the firelit space of the accommodated longhouse with a heart far heavier than you left with.

Yes, the space of this room is warm, where these trusted men sit within it — but you’ve gained news of your mother’s death. It is not a revelation that renders you incapable of carrying out your duties for the following days, but it does skew your emotions to a more irritable and responsive state. Perhaps, it is a disposition truer to your authentic self, hidden and buried beneath the layers of the _skjaldmær,_ of the weight of your sword and war.

And, your father…

“Your Highness,” you begin, unsure, gaze set upon the sight of him.

He sits, idle upon a fine chair, but his stare is drawn toward the spitting flames of the room’s hearth, where he sits closely by it. Even the light of those flames are bright enough to accent his tresses, where strands of it adopt a shade that is nearly silver and gold. And yet, as Prince Canute turns to acknowledge you, it is the way those flames cast restless shadows across the smoother planes of his face. Across the length of his lashes, and how they darken his eyes, that which alludes to his innate nature.

“Yes?” Canute's voice is polished.

His fingers are steepled, legs crossed, though you expect nothing less of him. The breath you draw is long. Residual snow melts and seeps into the threads of your cloak, and you haven’t shed it since your recent arrival from the slave camp of York. Your boots are still soaked, and:

“When you rise as King,” you start, approaching with quiet steps. “You will have the power to free and enslave people as you see fit. Is that true?”

Canute blinks, shifting to rest his arms across the chair.

More inclined to listen.

“Why do you ask?” he volleys.

“I...I know now where my father has been sold,” you manage to say, surprised by how difficult those words are on your tongue.

A reality that is bittersweet above all else.

Yes, your father lives. He breathes and walks the earth, but he is not _free._

Still bound by shackles, by chains and the scratch of twined rope.

If he is not free...then, neither are you.

“Y-Your Highness,” you try again, breath coming short. “Please...If you can, then will you—”

Your words are clipped, though it is not by any outside interruption nor interjecting voices, but by your own pause. The hearth still crackles, and even Askeladd and Thorkell are regarding you and your exchange between the Prince with at least some semblance of empathy, although it is hardly reinforced by their action and word.

Catching your breath as it fades and stutters, you hold His Highness’ stare.

Against that deeper slate of blue, and how it pierces.

Canute’s lip twitches, moving to shape a response worth your time, and—

The wooden door creaks open from the outside; blows in a frigid gust.

And it is there, stepping over the threshold as he pulls down his hood, where Thorfinn enters. His attire is as speckled with flakes from the night's snowfall, and the threads of it are frosted just as much as yours from your own wanderings. As the door slams closed behind him, and the howling wind is silenced from the outside, he steps further inside.

“The King’s house has been located,” he announces to all, but his gaze is pointed upon Askeladd. “Gunnar is reporting to him as a spy.”

As expected.

With such news, the older man smirks against the lip of his wine-filled tankard.

“Then, all is set in place,” Askeladd declares. “King Sweyn will have no choice but to play into our hands at tomorrow’s banquet—”

“Askeladd...” Thorfinn’s call is a growl.

That alone is enough for his leader to close his eyes in exhausted vexation.

“Not this again,” he grumbles aloud, sipping from his drink.

“Hey…” Thorfinn urges, standing rigid by the door. “You’re not talking your damned way out of this, baldie. You hear me?”

His face is nothing if not resolute. Hardened to stone and animosity.

But, still…

He is ridiculous. A damned idiot is what he is.

Watching as this eleven-year-feud plays out from the place where you stand tall at Prince Canute’s side, your jaw sets, brows furling. How long can one's hatred last? How far will it push those that harbor it so deeply within their weary bones? Those like Thorfinn? At what lengths will this man attempt to go for just a taste of revenge? Perhaps, farther than he must; than he truly can.

Sighing, Askeladd lowers his tankard atop the table.

“Consider this, Thorfinn,” he says. “I’ll go along with your duel, but only under the circumstance that we take care of this in the morning. It’s too late outside now to play around in the snow—”

“Play?” Thorfinn cracks, miffed at the man’s choice of words; as if he is some child, some insolent fool.

“Will you agree to my terms?” Askeladd forces, nonetheless, perching a thick brow higher. “The Imperial Council will be held tomorrow, you should think yourself lucky that I’m even considering this.”

Scowling, Thorfinn clicks his teeth.

Resignation without words.

“Well, then,” Askeladd hums. “Carry on, Thorfinn.”

Now, get out of my sight, is what he’s saying to him, but…

It is you that takes toward the exit instead, cloak _‘whooshing’_ with how fast you turn and move, steps heavy as you storm toward the door. Toward where Thorfinn stands in your way.

Damn him.

“Move,” you utter, slipping by his side to push through the weight of the door as it groans at the hinges.

“What’s your problem?” he prods, turning as he does so.

And yet, you keep moving.

Even with his words, you are already out of the door, trudging through dirty slush and mud, but Thorfinn is quick to follow. He barges out, as well. It is the sound of his footsteps crunching after yours that alerts you of his presence, and it is certainly a choice born from reluctance when you huff out a coiling breath and halt. As your back faces him, your cloak lifts and rumples with York’s constant winds. The moon is full, high above from its favored perch, brightly lit, but still as haunting as much as it is beautiful.

“Is it worth it?”

Confounded by your voice, Thorfinn pauses where he stands, raising a thick brow, humming:

“Hn?”

“Dueling Askeladd,” you clarify, turning slowly. “Killing him. Avenging your father — is it worth it, Thorfinn?”

The wind howls, tousling his hair more than it already naturally is, where it catches ivory flakes between the strands of it, but the moonlight does not cast him in an etheric outline as it does to you. Against this midnight backdrop; star-studded, and the glow of distantly lit smoke holes from the tops of thatched roofs, York's scattered longhouses are nothing but a bokeh behind the two of you.

“How would you understand, even if I bothered to explain it to you?” he says with a tone much lower than before; something far more morose.

“Would Thors want this?” you press.

“You don’t know anything about him.”

Such petulance.

It is not an answer, still...

“And, you do?” you challenge. “Then, answer: would your father want this?”

The fists at his sides curl and tighten.

“Shut-up...”

“Then, don’t do it!” you cry, and fiercely, too. “Don’t challenge Askeladd! Walk away!”

“What does it matter to you what I do with my life!”

“Because I’m trying to save it!”

“Why does it matter?!” Thorfinn moves to take a step, encroaching, closer and closer.

But, you do not want this. Not the proximity, not the rage in his eyes. No, not _this._

“You idiot! It's because…” Your chest is heaving, words stunted, rounding in on him. “Then—fight me…”

“Huh…?”

He falters, then. Nearly stumbles.

His expression seems more rounded, open, bemused at the edges of it and questioning — on whether he’s hearing you correctly or not. However, the fact that you draw your sword from its faithful scabbard, where it glints against the night, is enough of an answer.

“I challenge you, Thorfinn,” you grate, hoisting the point of your sword his way. “You defeat me, and I’ll let you duel Askeladd.”

“What? Are you insane?” Thorfinn attempts to reason. “In the middle of this damned town?”

But, you know he is only making excuses, now. Poor ones scavenged up from thin air. Thorfinn has never been the type of warrior to consider such things. It never mattered where he fought, or who witnessed his deeds, or whose flesh it was that he drew his blades across. He was never one to care. To pay heed or strategize. And yet, here, he wishes to thwart your provocations; the kind of bait that he would usually bite at with no hesitation. And so, to watch him stand there, unarmed as you wield your sword…it angers you even more. Boils your blood, makes you feel hot in this nightly winter bite.

“I’ve seen you fight anyone who challenged you before, so what makes me any different?” The vitriol in your tone thickens as you grip the hilt of your sword, voice shaking further. “So, if it’s worth it; fight me! Thorfinn!”

He grunts, bracing himself for an attack if one is truly on the verge.

“What the fuck are you trying to prove— _damn it—!”_

Done with words, you charge, where the point of your blade nearly skewers him with a forward thrust, but Thorfinn is quick enough to twist and side-step in due time.

“Fight me!” you demand of him, glaring as you reestablish your stance. “Fight back!”

Son of Thors.

“Stop!” he bellows, breath nothing but a furious cloud of vapor.

“Why is dueling Askeladd so damn important?” your voice scratches; sword swiping before him. “Why now?!”

Thorfinn evades the vicious path that your blade carves through the air, boots plowing through snow and dirt as he moves.

“It’ll never be enough!” he retorts once he's far enough away from your sword's reach. “Not until Askeladd draws his last breath!”

That’s not true at all.

Perhaps, it is to him, but it is not a truth he must live by.

He can escape this life, if he so wishes to. At any time, at any moment — he could do so right now.

“...Why won’t you just…” your words are nearly tangled, beseeching with heart, “Just go home!”

You dive in with another strike, a wider flourish, and this time Thorfinn counters it with his father’s dagger; where the edge of his blade places pressure along the weaker point of yours for it to break — and, it does. It snaps in two, yet the broken edge of it flies dangerously higher, close enough to scrape at the slope of your neck, slicing the skin — a shallow wound, but the roots of it run deeper.

Despite all that has transpired, despite your words and scorn, Thorfinn steps forward; a hand reaches out, but your voice halts him:

“Don't…” you tell him, swallowing, although your mouth and throat are paper-dry. “If it’s worth it to you...th-then, go.”

Wordless, Thorfinn stares at you, then at the _broken sword,_ sunken into a bed of snow at your boots.

“What are you waiting for...?” you rasp, voice barely rising over a gale, gathering a handful of crumbling snow to toss it. “I said go!”

And, he does, scowling down at the sight of you before he pivots on the heels of his feet to retreat; but where?

Although the question rings like a toll, you convince yourself that you do not care to know.

Finally.

_Finally..._

This scar you will now bear will be one to mark the path you've chosen. A path that once involved saving Thorfinn from himself, though your efforts are all for naught, but you can still save yourself; aid those who long for the help you will offer along this path. And, as you brace against the numbing weather, as you kneel, defeated, to watch his receding figure depart by your rough request, and as the blood from your wound trickles and _stains_ the fur of your cloak's mantle, you realize a truth.

Any warrior must know: there is no path without scars.

☽

“The wound seems fresh, _skjaldmær,”_ assesses a sly gravel above you.

A voice that doesn't fit Thorkell nor Asgeir, you're certain.

It takes you all but a second to realize that the stark tone settling in your ears, over this ambient murmur of York's night, is anything but a figment of your imagination. Having gathered the cold fragments of your snapped sword within your arms from this bed of slushed snow, the last thing you expect to hear is this comment of Askeladd. He stands where you've been ruminating, hissing as the sting of winter winds has been irritating your wound, drying the blood for the last hour, long after Thorfinn has left to retreat elsewhere.

“Hn,” you grunt, eyes finding interest in _anything_ but the Viking before you.

Bless this night for its darkness, for the clarity of constellations dusted high above for you to set your stare upon instead...yes, at _anything_ but Askeladd.

Face contorted, you stand from your crouched position, broken blades cradled as you eye him suspiciously.

“It was an accident,” you tell him, voice lost to the cold and your crumpled pride.

Askeladd's hands remain folded across his chest, long cloak caught in these stray winds, as he replies:

“…Because of Thorfinn, wasn't it?” he asserts nonchalantly.

To think that you've convinced yourself that Thorfinn's existence matters naught to you, and yet the way your brows furrow at the mere sound of his name disputes that, and Askeladd is no half-wit to overlook it.

“In any case, do you know where he's managed to stalk off to?” the Viking presses.

Your chin rises, skeptical of this man's intentions, though you know well enough what it is he's alluding to.

“What do you want with him?” you counter, but the sudden change in your voice is evident. “You know he can't win a duel against you, and yet, you lead him on like this? What is it that you hope to gain from him when has so little to offer except his hatred?”

“So, you _do_ care?” Askeladd realizes.

You remain silent, merely glaring at his taunting face.

The smug gleam in his eye proves to infuriate you even more.

Askeladd notices this, encouraging him to feed into these emotions.

So, he does.

The older man exhales, loudly, holding your attention before he starts again:

“Well, if it were up to me, I would stay clear of him. He's nothing but a stupid kid and only fights for the importance of himself… it’s a shame, really,” Askeladd finishes with a witty scoff.

Your brows crease even more, shaking your head with this stark opposition.

“That's not true,” you refute, though your consonants are rough. Sharp. “You _know_ that.”

Askeladd's brows have risen in interest, now.

“Oh? And, why isn’t it true?” he retorts, haughtily so, only boiling your blood.

Your eyes bore into his, pondering for the right words.

“Because…” your voice trails, fading to the night.

His eyes narrow, gaze skimming over your features as if you are some scripture to be _read._

“No, I get it, now. You care for him, don't you?”

To hear those words from _Askeladd's_ mouth...

Instead of reprimanding you, Askeladd manages what seems to be a tiny smile; a mere twitch of the corner of his lips.

“I can see it in your face; it's my special trick,” he further states. “You've got the face of a woman who's _searching_ for something, and you think you can find it in Thorfinn, don't you? You're scared you'll lose him if he duels me. But he's too stupid to know when to quit while he's ahead, and who am I to deny him this challenge if he wants it so much?”

You send him a sharp glare, dismissing his words.

Askeladd only studies over you, more than interested in what you will finally say.

Somehow emboldened by instinct, you step forward, rounding in on this man in such a menacing manner.

“He's already beaten down enough. If you try to further harm him—“

Askeladd nearly rolls his eyes, huffs out a frosty breath that sounds more like a fearless scoff.

“Then, what? What will _you_ do?” he vexes.

He all but warrants a deeper scowl on your face against this half-light of the moon.

“I won't hesitate to kill you myself in _his_ stead,” you declare.

There is no doubt you mean what you say. Will hold yourself accountable for it.

You turn away from him, trudging to part the snow with your gait, back toward the warmth of the alehouse.

Askeladd follows, still.

“I see nothing wrong with wanting to protect him,” he drags, halting you in your steps. “Simmer down, girl. This duel will be good for him.”

_Good?_

You give a scoff before sneering, still clutching onto the cold, split iron of your sword.

“What will Thorfinn get out of it?” you push onward, unwilling to comply with him if it failed to benefit Thorfinn.

It is quiet for a moment, and Askeladd's eyes — that frigid, ice blue of them — are unreadable.

“…His life.”

**1014 A.D.** **  
****F E B R U A R Y** **  
****❖** **  
****N O R T H U M B R I A R E G I O N** **  
****Y O R K**

The gusts of the next morning are far too frigid to bear with only your burning anger and will.

The Imperial Council is set to begin at noonday, but aside from that grandiose event, and despite your efforts to cease it, the damned duel is still underway. Between Askeladd, son of Olaf, and Thorfinn, son of Thors. Prince Canute and Thorkell have followed to serve as witnesses for the victor, though you’ve settled for wandering throughout York’s pathways — brushing shoulders with slave traders, catching word of noblemen that arrive on fine steeds for the banquet, drowning in fineries and golds and silvers. All bejeweled beyond their true means.

Beyond practicality.

Askeladd returns through the gates of York with Bjorn’s body.

His Highness, Prince Canute and Thorkell return shortly after.

But, Thorfinn… he is nowhere to be found among them. No nest of unruly golden hair to catch the winds, no permanent scowl upon a scratched and dirtied face, no growling declarations of an undying hatred for Askeladd. No traces of him. All there is, is the empty space where he should be tailing after them. Only an aching silence in his stead.

To assume the worse — that he had lost the duel, and in turn, had lost his _life_ — wears on you. The way your gaze darts out toward the snowy lands beyond the town’s gate, canvassing across the hills and valley for any sign of him. That glaring desperation in your eye, and how Canute is quick to allay your fears:

“Calm yourself,” he advises, standing nearer than before. “I stopped the duel before either man drew his last breath. Thorfinn still yet lives.”

Alive? Still?

The puff of breath that curls and fades from your mouth is all but a paltry of the relief that fills you. How your knees nearly give way, and the wild flurry of your chest, but how could you expect anything less? Canute is not a man that thrives from war and bloodshed. In his eyes, the death of another would prove to be nothing more than another life lost — no victory, no glory, no afterglow of the kill.

This man decrees retribution for those acts, instead.

Upon those _deserving_ of the punishment.

“Then, where is he?” you press — but, of course, you would.

“He's brooding over himself, of course,” Canute tells you. “He requires the time alone.”

A hand carves a path to rest upon your shoulder; featherlight. To soothe you where your blood runs cold. You look to him, and you believe him. Words spoken with regality, coupled with a balanced touch to evoke enough faith within you toward his promises that you are no longer so undone. Any king should evoke that. Should awaken it. Though, just as fast as his palm had settled along your shoulder, it retreats. Gone.

Something ephemeral and ghostly.

But, real.

☽

At last, Thorfinn’s late return to town is marked by calamity.

With several irate guardsmen of York surrounding him and the ring of beaten locals at his feet.

Their Captain shrieks:

“You again—! Arrest him!”

☽

There is a bleakness to the sky and its land, despite the day’s activities. It is a chill to the wind that nearly causes your teeth to chatter, though the cloak around your shoulders proves reliable enough to thwart the worst of it, but it seems colder along the river. Where the hull of the dingy cargo ship that you sit upon sways and dips with its currents and the region’s particular wind direction.

Yet, it is no ordinary cargo ship that you’ve sought out—

“You’ve...you’ve returned?”

Leif stands at the edge of the pier.

 _Leif,_ you remember. _Leif Erikson._

For what it’s worth, this lowly sailor, hailing from the Northernmost parts of the sea, is the only man capable of offering the kind of respite you seek. Even if Asgeir spends his hours mingling among the warriors within one of York’s taverns, you are far more keen to see to it that your time is spent collecting thoughts and rearranging emotions and views within yourself that are horribly askew. Such things can never be achieved when you are drowning in mead and wine and booze, where the guffaw of sea-worn warriors grate at your ears, and the heat of those fires would burn at your skin, irritating this fresh wound along your neck.

What you are in need of, what you crave, is the open air.

Space and quietude and honest words that are hardly born from alcohol.

Thus, you draw your gaze away from the water.

“Thorfinn still lives, if you’re concerned for his well-being. Although I don’t know what state he’s in at this very moment, wherever he may be,” you tell him, eyes devoid of any misleading pretense. “I’ll answer any questions you may have.”

But, there is a composure to your tone that, perhaps, Leif hardly expects to be greeted with. He blinks, taking a moment to gather whatever thoughts flood his mind — no doubt of Thorfinn, more profoundly. Where is he, now? How is he faring? How did you come to meet him? For how long have you known him? Has he ever spoken of home? Has he ever expressed a longing to go back? Did he ever tell you about his family? Helga? Ylva? How badly has he been injured on the battlegrounds? What does he plan to do with his life once this is all over?

Yes, there is an overwhelming myriad of questions pertaining to Thorfinn, and yet…

And yet…

“Where’s... _your_ home?”

Leif’s voice is a benevolent sound. Fatherly and aching.

Snowfall begins, and...

“Home?” you whisper back, as if it is a concept you are not meant to understand.

The ship sways when he steps onboard, bearing a swiftness of a man who’s voyaged across countless seas. Leif sits upon the bench that is across from yours, rests his weathered palms atop his knees, and those eyes are set. He’s waiting, displaying a sort of patience you’ve hardly experienced among the life you’ve lived.

Swallowing, you feel oddly undeserving of his consideration. His time.

Sweet, precious time.

“My home,” you begin.

There are images of rope-bound wrists, disheveled hair, dirty tunics — mother and father. Of warm arms wrapped around your frame, words of a better life promised to you; a future.

Of _love._

“My home,” your voice is airy as it spills, as if those are the only two words your tongue can wrap itself around. “Is not a place. I realize that, now.”

Then, what is it? A question you don’t know the answer to.

But, one day...one day you will.

Leif wrings his fingers together, lets the flakes settle upon his shoulders.

“I see…” he utters. “Is that the reason why you survive on the battlegrounds? Why it is that you fight?”

To find your home?

_...I can see it in your face; it's my special trick..._

_...you've got the face of a woman who's searching for something..._

“I’ve…” your voice is quiet with your self-reflection. “I’ve never given it that much thought, but I think...I think so.”

☽

“Excuse me, have you seen a young man; about _this_ tall, blond hair, brown eyes. His right arm is injured. Carrying dual blades?”

“Hm? Dual blades?” comments a scuffed-up gentleman within York’s muddy market. “Sorry, sir...haven’t seen him.”

Leif’s wide-eyed stare narrows upon this news, although it's you who tries to be a voice of reason:

“Maybe he hasn’t returned to town, yet.”

You give hope when there’s so little left. Townsfolk carry on their merry ways, weaving through these honeycomb streets of melting snow and slush that catches onto the ends of your cloak and layers upon the soles of your boots. Spending close to an hour of scouring the town of York will end in such a result, though for the prospect of locating Thorfinn is something worth the ordeal. Worth this sting of cold that seems to be a permanent state for the winter months.

You’ve tailed behind Leif, faithful to his goal, as he pulled aside countless residents, men and women. Traders and merchants and sailors alike. And yet, the answer is always the same:

No one has any recollection of such a man.

No dual blades.

Nothing.

Even as you push out a breath, where it vaporizes against these heavy clouds, your gaze darts to and fro.

Leif sighs; an exhausted sound.

“You may be right,” he admits, tone low. “We should resume our search by—”

“I’ve seen a fella fitting your description!”

The projecting voice belongs not to you nor any other tone Leif seems to recognize. It is not even Mord. Blinking, your cloak all but audibly swishes with how quick you are to turn, by instincts and some defensive response. Though, Leif reacts with more ease, eyes settling upon the face of one of York’s traders as he steps from his stand — of woolen goods, perhaps sewn by a wife or daughter or sister. Other wares are displayed amongst his array of merchandise, and he seems far from a novice with the inner workings of trade. Still, younger than Leif at a second observation.

Sizing up this trader with a wayward glance, you deem him harmless enough.

Ah, that’s right.

Not everyone is out to fight. To harm.

Not everyone wields a sword in search of bloodshed.

“You say you’re searchin’ for a fella with a wrapped-up arm?” says the trader, hand on his hip.

Leif steps forward, eager.

“Yes! Yes…” he answers, stepping past you. “Blond? Brown eyes? Two blades on him?”

“Hm, sounds like him,” the trader confirms. “Last I saw, he was being taken down to the holding cells by town guards. Looked pretty beaten, too. Poor fella.”

Beaten?

Askeladd. The duel.

_Of course._

Lifting weathered hands, Leif is all the more high-strung.

“Quick! Which way to the cells?!” he demands this in his sudden panic. “Where?!”

☽

Despite the far away perch you’ve taken, above ground, back pressed against the cold surface of the holding cell’s entrance, you can still perceive bits of the conversation between Leif and Thorfinn from below the wide steps, though one word from the sailor’s mouth rings louder than all others from those depths of the holding cell:

“It’s Vinland…!”

And, as this air ripples through your attire, you lift your gaze from the mucked boots you wear to listen:

“You said it, too, right, Thorfinn?” Leif's voice carries on. “You said that Thors wanted to go, too. Thors came to Iceland to escape battle. If he were still alive...I’m sure he would have tried to go there, too. A land free of slavery and war. If it’s in Vinland, I’m sure we can do it…”

Vinland.

_Dream of that instead…_

By the time both Leif and Thorfinn emerge from the holding cells, with the latter finally released by Leif’s request, you can’t control yourself, pushing away from the wall you once leaned upon in favor of rushing up to Thorfinn in relief, though instead of wrapping him in a hug — given you know he will hate it, if you do — you take his battered, _battered_ face in your hands and examine him with this expression that is nearly tearful. Unexpected.

“Idiot…” you manage.

Speechless against this warmth of your palms, Thorfinn sets his eyes upon you, absorbs this kindness and concern despite all that he’s done; how he’s treated you since this long run and chase from Marlborough. He watches through swollen eyelids, seems to try to catch his breath, or perhaps to gather any words to either stave you away or keep you there.

Still — Leif stands, both hands settled on his hips.

“If you’re ready to clean and treat your bruises and cuts, there are supplies and food back on my ship.”

A voyage to return Thorfinn to his homeland of Iceland.

The idea of it seems far more plausible now that Thorfinn carries on in a state of compliance. Even the region's sky takes on a clearer appearance for noonday, sun high and well, while the Imperial Council is set underway. Where Thorkell, Askeladd, and Canute have all gathered for the formalities of it. Whether their ulterior motifs will fall through or not matters little, given that you’ve reverted back to focusing on events and people and dreams that are more relevant.

Wind still howls.

Softly so.

The waters of the river are calmer by the time the three of you return to the pier, where Leif’s cargo ship takes its gentle sway against it.

Peace…

Quiet…

You hold a damp cloth, seized from Leif's supplies, though now soaked red from where you’ve carefully wiped the blood from Thorfinn’s nose and the bow of his lip — shapely lips, too, now that you’ve had the chance to catch sight of them when he’s not spouting vitriol or sneering. Dry and chapped from this harsh weather. Perhaps Leif has a share of oils you can seek out for him later.

Just beyond where the two of you stand idle upon York’s pier, Leif and his men fumble about, making haste to load the ship with its cargo for it to set sail within the coming hours. Regardless of their separate tasks, the hard stare which Thorfinn points at the wound on your neck is hardly discreet, though you doubt he means for it to seem as such.

“Staring won’t change what’s happened,” you think to tell him.

As you move to wring out the stained cloth, to overlook the sudden flash of guilt that sinks into his visage would be to miss out on this softer side of him. It’s almost indulgent to see and realize it. To realize _Thorfinn_ and these suppressed emotions he’s pushed back for far too long. Something nearly as noteworthy as his responsive nature, is the lack of words and retaliations he’s been so dependent on for these past eleven years.

Still, you continue to treat his bruises, pressing another cold cloth against his discolored skin.

And yet, even your thoughts are distant as you pose this:

“Is it true?”

Wordless, Thorfinn blinks, but the roundness of his eyes is questioning.

“Vinland, I mean,” you add.

The very subject alone seems to pull an odd string within him, those brown eyes widening for a small moment, like he’s been reeled back to a time he’s long since lived years ago. Memories, surely.

Perhaps of Iceland. Thors.

And…

“Yes.”

Your hand still holds the cloth along his cheek, voice softer:

“Is that where you plan on going? After all of this? To Vinland. To the west.”

Another stretch of silence emerges, but those eyes are honest.

“Yes.”

He sounds _breathless._

Enough for you to inhale.

“Then, I wish you well—”

Thorfinn grasps your wrist, where the cloth all but slips from your fingers.

He catches your stare as _terns_ trill, but there is still a lone _hawk_ that soars even higher as he proposes this:

“Come with me; come with us.”

A choice.

To Iceland? Vinland? Maybe both?

For once in your life...there is a _choice._

One you can’t readily refuse when it offers so much. This much. Promises beyond what you once thought you were even worth. A fertile land. Warmth. Free of slavery and war. Rolling plains of grass, as far as the eye can see. To start anew. Overwhelmed, there's a glassiness to your gaze with the fact that Thorfinn is staring at you _this_ way. His palm loosens around your wrist. Free. Hands dipping downward, then, you clutch onto the front of his attire, nails catching against the dirty threads where you hold tight.

For him to not click his teeth in outright annoyance, to not pry your hands from the face of his capelet as you wholly expect from him, is a thought that hardly crosses your mind. Rather, you cast him a gaze that is almost scrutinizing, searching for a degree of deceit within him, but all you find is sincerity. This apologetic shade of warm, _warm_ honey-brown, and you're undone against it, forehead leaning in to rest along Thorfinn’s chest.

Yes, to close your eyes and _weep_ there in silence, even as the Imperial Council nearly reaches its bloody revelation of _treason_ from York's hall.

☽


End file.
